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.      NOTICE 

This  Rook  is  the  Property  of 
Mrs.   W.   E.   Halsell,  Viiiita,  Oklahoma. 

When  it  is  loaned  no  privilege  except 
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YOU  are  requested  to  read  it  PROMPTLY 
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HE  AND   HECUBA 


HE  AND  HECUBA 


A    NO  TEL 


BY 


BARONESS   VON    HUTTEN 

AUTHOR  OF  MAKK'D  IN  MAKING,  ouu  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES 

VIOI.ETT,  ETC. 


NEW    YORK 
D.    A1TLETON    AND    COMPANY 

1905 


COPYRIGHT,  1905,  BY 
D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


Published,   October,  1905 


TO 
HENRY    JAMES,    ESQ. 

WHOSE    KINDLY    CRITICISM 

OF    THE 

SHORT    STORY    OF    THE    SAME    NAME 
ENCOURAGED    ME    TO    LENGTHEN    IT    TO    ITS 

PRESENT    FORM, 
I    DEDICATE    THIS    BOOK 

ON     THE 

PRINCIPLE    THAT 
A    CAT    MAY    LOOK    AT    A    KING 


2225^10 


HE    AND    HECUBA 


CHAPTER    I 

THE  Earl  of  Yarrow  leaned  back  in  his  low  chair,  his 
delicate  hands  crossed  on  the  rug  that  covered  his  knees, 
his  quiet  brown  eyes  fixed  on  the  smouldering  fire. 

Behind  him  a  great  window  glimmered  faintly  against 
the  evening  sky,  and  beyond,  seen  between  two  fantasti 
cally  clipped  yews,  stretched  the  sea.  Yarrow  could  see 
the  chill  evening  scene  by  raising  his  eyes  to  the  old  gold- 
framed  mirror,  and  the  contrast  between  the  two  pictures 
before  him  gave  him  a  delicious  feeling  of  lazy  well-being. 
Before  the  fire  Lady  Yarrow  sat  sewing,  and  opposite 
her,  rather  huddled  in  his  chair,  one  thin  leg  crossed  over 
the  other,  was  the  Rector,  Mr.  Dudley,  the  light  of  a  red 
light  falling  on  his  beautiful  old  white  head. 

"  And  this  most  beautiful  person  was  discovered  in 
Biarritz?  "  the  old  man  asked  after  a  comfortable  si 
lence.  ' '  Do  you  know  anything  about  her  ?  ' ' 

"  Only  that  she  is  the  most  beautiful  person,"  re 
turned  Lady  Yarrow,  her  smooth,  dark  head  bent  over 
her  work ;  ' '  that  wretch  to  your  left  fell  so  violently  in 

1 


HE    AND    HECUBA 


CHAPTER    I 

THE  Earl  of  Yarrow  leaned  back  in  his  low  chair,  his 
delicate  hands  crossed  on  the  rug  that  covered  his  knees, 
his  quiet  brown  eyes  fixed  on  the  smouldering  fire. 

Behind  him  a  great  window  glimmered  faintly  against 
the  evening  sky,  and  beyond,  seen  between  two  fantasti 
cally  clipped  yews,  stretched  the  sea.  Yarrow  could  see 
the  chill  evening  scene  by  raising  his  eyes  to  the  old  gold- 
framed  mirror,  and  the  contrast  between  the  two  pictures 
before  him  gave  him  a  delicious  feeling  of  lazy  well-being. 
Before  the  fire  Lady  Yarrow  sat  sewing,  and  opposite 
her,  rather  huddled  in  his  chair,  one  thin  leg  crossed  over 
the  other,  was  the  Rector,  Mr.  Dudley,  the  light  of  a  red 
light  falling  on  his  beautiful  old  white  head. 

"  And  this  most  beautiful  person  was  discovered  in 
Biarritz?  "  the  old  man  asked  after  a  comfortable  si 
lence.  "  Do  you  know  anything  about  her?  " 

"  Only  that  she  is  the  most  beautiful  person,"  re 
turned  Lady  Yarrow,  her  smooth,  dark  head  bent  over 
her  work ;  ' '  that  wretch  to  your  left  fell  so  violently  in 

1 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

love  with  her  at  first  sight  that  I  was  forced  to  make 
friends  with  her  to  save  a  scandal !  ' ! 

' '  Borrow,  Borrow !  This  is  really  alarming.  I  won 
der  what  Rebecca  will  say !  ' ' 

Lord  Yarrow,  who  was  still  called  Borrowdaile,  his 
former  name,  in  the  very  frequent  absent-minded  mo 
ments  of  his  uncle,  laughed. 

"  I  think  I  could  make  a  pretty  good  guess.  Now, 
mind,  don't  you  get  me  into  trouble  in  that  quarter! 
You  yourself  will  be  crazy  about  Madame  Perez,  but 
*  Aunt  Rebecca  ' — !  And  she  is,  as  well  as  being  splen 
didly  beautiful,  most  good-natured  and  simple,  and  has 
been  particularly  kind  about  posing  to  me;  hasn't  she, 
Mary?  " 

' '  Indeed  she  has.  She  is  a  great  boon  to  him,  Uncle 
Charles,  and— a  hint  for  Mrs.  Dudley— she  gave  up  going 
to  no  less  a  person  than  the  Duchess  of  Berwick  in  order 
to  come  home  with  us !  ' ' 

"  Did  she,  indeed!  Well,  I  am  glad  of  that— on  Re 
becca's  account.  I  am  afraid  I  must  be  going,  however," 
the  little  old  man  nodded,  looking  at  his  watch ;  "  it  is 
growing  late,  and  you  know  how  long  it  takes  me  to  dress ; 
I  am  so  clumsy." 

' '  You  clumsy !  ' '  Mary  Yarrow  repeated,  indignant 
ly,  with  the  instant  partisanship  any  quotation  from  the 
redoubtable  Mrs.  Dudley  never  failed  to  rouse  in  her. 
"  Well,  that  is  too  much!  " 

Both  men  laughed  as  Mr.  Dudley  rose.  "  Am  I  not 
allowed  to  abuse  myself  ?  Mary,  dear,  I  must  trot  along 
— and  your  beauty  will  still  be  beautiful  to-morrow  ' ' — 

2 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

he  broke  off  at  the  sound  of  trailing  skirts  in  the  corridor; 
and  as  the  door  opened  Lady  Yarrow  reached  out  and 
turned  a  flood  of  electric  light  on  the  new  comer. 

"  Madame  Perez— our  uncle,  Mr.  Dudley!  " 

The  Rector's  blue  eyes  danced  with  delight  as  he  gazed 
at  the  most  magnificent  creature  he  had  ever  beheld,  and 
Lord  Yarrow,  after  a  short  pause,  said  teasingly,  "  Well, 
Uncle  Charles— did  I  tell  the  truth?  " 

' '  No,  Borrow,  you  did  not !  For  the  excellent  reason 
that  no  words  could!  " 

Madame  Perez  laughed  good-naturedly  with  frank 
comprehension  of  his  words,  and  sat  down  in  a  low  chair, 
her  brown  velvet  skirts  billowing  about  her  in  graceful 
waves. 

She  was  really  extraordinarily  lovely  with  her  great 
masses  of  wonderful  gold-bronze  hair,  the  darkness  of 
her  shadowy  eyes,  and  the  redness  of  her  perfect,  rather 
small  mouth. 

Added  to  the  charm  of  her  beauty,  she  possessed  the 
strong  attraction  of  absolute  simplicity  of  manner,  and 
as  she  warmed  her  hands  at  the  fire  and  chatted  with 
Lord  Yarrow,  the  Rector  watched  her  with  a  nai've  ex 
pression  of  rapturous  delight. 

"  You  will  find  us  very  quiet,"  the  old  man  said  at 
length,  "  and  all  of  us  but  your  host  and  hostess,  very 
dull.  Borrowdaile  has  a  great  many  good  points,  but  I 
must  confess  to  its  being  very  dull,  and  you,  I  fear — 

Madame  Perez  laughed,  as  Lady  Yarrow  rang  for 
tea.  "  Oh,  no,  I  too  am  very  dull.  I  am  a  big,  sleepy, 
stupid  woman. ' ' 

3 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

"  Uncle  Charles  doesn't  believe  you.  Look  at  his 
face,"  put  in  Lady  Yarrow.  "  She  likes  to  say  she  is 
stupid,  Uncle  Charles.  She  ought  to  be,  you  know,  if 
there  were  such  a  thing  as  fair  play  in  the  world— but 
she  isn't.  I'm  not  saying  she  isn't  lazy!  " 

It  was  at  this  juncture,  as  Madame  Perez,  who  faced 
the  door,  was  smiling  in  deprecation  at  the  Hector,  that 
the  door  opened  a  second  time,  and  a  second  clergyman 
came  in,  with  the  air,  in  spite  of  a  certain  harshness  in 
his  face,  of  one  at  home  in  the  house,  and  glad  to  enter 
there  where  a  place  awaited  him. 

Mary  gave  him  her  hand,  he  bent  over  Yarrow,  and 
then,  greeting  the  Rector  with  a  sudden  softening  in  his 
dark  face,  turned  to  Madame  Perez,  to  whom  Mary  Yar 
row  introduced  him. 

King  Hardy  was  at  that  time  forty-two  years  old,  but 
his  face,  with  its  grim  frown,  and  deep-cut  lines  about  the 
mouth,  looked  older. 

His  eyes,  deepset  under  their  heavy,  overhanging 
brow,  were  of  a  bright  light  gray  that  contrasted  oddly, 
almost  unpleasantly,  with  his  dark,  weather-beaten  skin. 
He  wore  a  thick  moustache,  one-half  of  which  was  very 
gray,  the  other  being  almost  quite  black,  as  was  the  rough 
short-cropped  hair,  growing  rather  low  on  his  brow. 

Rosalba  Perez  summed  the  man  up  as  plain,  elderly, 
and  uninteresting.  Then,  as  he  began  to  talk,  in  a  rather 
musical  voice,  and  his  face  broke  into  a  smile  at  some  re 
mark  of  the  Rector 's,  she  modified  her  first  opinion,  and 
set  him  down  as  plain,  elderly  and  interesting. 

After  a  few  commonplaces,  Hardy  announced  the  ob- 
4 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

ject  of  his  visit.  A  man  in  the  neighborhood,  a  mason, 
had  fallen  that  afternoon  and  broken  both  his  legs.  ' '  I 
carried  him  home  and  fetched  the  doctor, ' '  he  explained, 
"  but  it's  going  to  cost  a  lot  of  money  to  cure  him,  and — 
I  can 't  do  it.  So  you  may,  George. ' ' 

He  ended  abruptly,  and  bending  forward,  pushed  a 
protruding  log  back  into  the  fire. 

' '  Thanks.  You  say  you  carried  him  home, ' '  Yarrow 
answered.  ' '  You  mean  to  his  house  ?  ' ' 

Hardy  turned,  with  a  little  half-defiant  laugh.  ' '  No. 
I  mean  to  my  house.  I  have  an  extra  room  there,  and  I 
can  look  after  the  poor  chap.  I  know  something  of  nurs 
ing,  you  know." 

"  /  know,"  said  Dr.  Dudley,  suddenly,  "  a  great 
many  things,  King."  With  a  little,  almost  womanly 
gesture,  he  laid  his  hand  on  Hardy's  arm,  where  it  trem 
bled  slightly  until  the  younger  man,  covering  it  with  his, 
said :  ' '  All  vanity,  sir.  No  man  knows  so  much  as  he 
thinks.  Lady  Yarrow,  you  have  given  me  cream,  which 
I  hate." 

Lady  Yarrow  changed  the  cup,  and  the  subject,  and 
Madame  Perez  wondered  what  it  was  all  about. 

A  few  minutes  later,  Hardy  rose,  and  helping  Yarrow 
out  of  his  chair  said  good-bye  to  the  others,  and  left 
the  room  with  his  host  leaning  on  his  arm.  "  Highway 
robbery  introduced  into  the  drawing-room,"  observed  the 
Rector.  "  He  will  get  no  end  of  money  out  of  Yarrow, 
Mary. ' ' 

"  Yes,"  answered  Mary,  very  gently. 

Madame  Perez  watched  her  meditatively  for  a  few 
5 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

seconds,  and  then  said:  "  Is  he  also  a— Reverend?    And 
what  curious  manners  he  has !  ' ' 

Lady  Yarrow  nodded.  "  Yes.  He  is  Rector  of  Car- 
bury,  the  village  through  which  you  came  on  your  way 
from  the  station.  He  is  rather — gruff — but  the  best  man 
in  the  world.  Isn  't  he,  Uncle  Charles  ?  ' ' 

Mr.  Dudley  smiled.  "  He  is  a  very  good  man,  and 
does  more  good  in  a  week  than  most  of  us  in  a  year.  I 
love  King  Hardy. ' ' 

Madame  Perez  shrugged  her  shoulders  slightly. 

"  I  always  salute  goodness — when  I  am  shown  it — but 
I  cannot  say  I  find  this  particular  good  man  very — how 
does  one  say—simpatico?  " 

Mary  laughed. 

1 '  Vain  woman.  You  mean,  that  you  and  your  beauty 
were  not  noticed  by  him!  Ah  yes — I  too  was  once 
used  to  a  certain  amount  of  admiration,  and  Mr.  Hardy, 
I  am  sure,  does  not  know  that  I  am  not  as  hideous  as  the 
Witch  of  Endor." 

"  The  Witch  of  Endor,  my  dear,  was  probably  a 
young  and  handsome  woman,"  remarked  the  Rector, 
"  for  she  is  supposed  to  have  done  much  mischief " 

' '  At  all  events,  Mr.  Hardy  certainly  is  as  blind  as  a 
bat,  or  he  wouldn't  have  sat  for  half  an  hour  opposite 
Madame  Perez,  without  looking  at  her !  ' ' 

Out  in  the  chill  November  air,  the  man  who  had  sat 
for  half  an  hour  opposite  Madame  Perez  without  looking 
at  her,  was  hurrying  homewards,  his  trousers  turned  up 
over  his  coarse  boots,  his  hat  jammed  down  over  his 
eyes. 

6 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

He  had  a  roll  of  bank  notes  in  his  pocket,  the  memory 
of  Yarrow's  sympathy  should  have  been  vividly  in  his 
mind,  and  was  in  reality  somewhere  in  the  back  part  of 
his  consciousness,  but  the  man 's  memory  had  carried  him 
back  many  years  into  his  youth.  On  he  hurried,  splash 
ing  unheeding  through  the  mud,  responding  half-uncon- 
sciously  to  the  curt  greetings  of  the  few  people  he  met. 
He  did  not  see  the  lighted  windows  of  the  village  through 
which  he  passed ;  he  did  not  look  with  a  kindly  smile  into 
the  occasionally  open  cottage  doors,  where  the  fleeting 
pictures  of  humble  comfort  usually  pleased  him;  he  did 
not  pause  at  the  solitary  cottage  half-way  between  the  vil 
lage  and  his  Rectory,  where  a  sick  boy  lay,  expecting  a 
cheery  word  from  him. 

He  was  deep  in  one  of  the  terrible  memories  that 
were  the  bane  of  his  life,  and  knowing  his  weakness  as  he 
knew  his  strength,  made  not  the  slightest  effort  to  fight 
against  what  he  called  his  demon. 

He  saw,  instead  of  the  steep,  dark  country  road  and 
flat  gray  fields  about  him,  a  yellow-white  terrace,  on  the 
balustrade  of  which  climbed  giant  heliotrope  and  small, 
shaggy  roses. 

Overhead,  instead  of  the  low-hanging  dark  sky,  a 
vivid,  starlit  vault,  streaked  from  time  to  time  with  a 
falling  star. 

Instead  of  the  smell  of  wet  mud,  and  rain-soaked, 
half -bare  hedgerows,  his  nostrils  inflated  to  catch  the 
odors  of  a  thousand  heavy-scented  flowers.  Instead  of 
being  King  Hardy,  Rector  of  Carbury,  a  middle-aged, 
hard-working  man,  he  was  King  Hard}7,  nephewr  of  Mr. 

7 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

Hardy  of  Bishop 's  Hardy,  twenty-five  years  old,  travel 
ing  in  Italy  for  his  pleasure. 

The  hurrying  man  took  off  his  hat  and  wiped  his  brow 
with  his  handkerchief  as  he  spoke  the  words  aloud. 

There  she  sat  in  the  long  chair  beside  him.  He  had 
called  her  many  names,  his  treasure,  his  soul.  Low 
browed,  dark-eyed,  with  white  teeth  and  a  voice  that 
made  his  heart  tremble 

On  and  on  he  went,  his  thoughts  as  well  as  his  feet 
faster  and  faster  as  the  house  on  the  hill  grew  larger  and 
more  distinct. 

He  remembered  the  lace  that  edged  her  yellow  gown 
that  night.  He  remembered  the  rose  he  put  in  her  hair — 
but  he  had  reached  his  gate,  and  there  was  no  more  time 
now. 

Later,  when  he  was  alone  in  his  study,  the  demon 
would  come  back,  he  knew.  And  the  immediate 
cause  for  the  visit  of  the  demon  was  the  tawny-haired 
woman  in  the  loose  velvet  gown  at  Borrowdaile  House. 

There  was  no  particular  resemblance,  he  knew,  but  it 
was  the  type — good-bye,  then,  until  later. 

Pausing  a  minute  outside,  and  drawing  a  deep  breath, 
Hardy  opened  his  house-door  and  went  in. 


CHAPTER   II 

TIIE  corridor  was  unlighted,  and  the  Rector,  stumbling 
on  a  chair,  nearly  fell.  His  study  door  was  half  open, 
and  he  limped  into  the  small  room  in  which  the  remnants 
of  an  untidy  fire  glowed  faintly,  showing  up  with  a 
curious  distinctness  the  shabby  discomfort  of  the  torn 
rug,  the  faded  green  rep  furniture,  and  the  broken- 
shaded  lamp  on  the  table. 

He  fumbled  for  matches,  but  there  were  none  in  their 
place,  so  going  to  the  door  he  called  in  a  very  gentle  voice, 
"Katie!  " 

An  invisible  door  opened  somewhere  to  his  right,  and 
with  a  strong  smell  of  frying  meat,  came  the  answer. 

"  Light  my  lamp,  please;  I  have  no  matches." 

"  I've  got  my  meat  in  the  pan,  Mr.  Hardy,  and  I 
can't  leave  it.  I'm  sorry,  but  I  can't  do  everything  at 
once.  MacDougall  was  playing  jackstraws  with  the 
matches ;  they  must  be  somewhere  around. ' ' 

Hardy  went  back  and  lighting  a  bit  of  paper  in  the 
red  ashes,  used  it  as  a  torch  until  he  found  the  matches, 
and  lighted  the  lamp  himself. 

He  had  not  reproved  the  servant  for  her  way  of 
speaking  to  him,  for  she  was  a  hard-working  soul  whose 
good  qualities  he  appreciated,  and  he  worked  patiently, 

9 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

closing  the  shutters  and  mending  the  fire,  but  as  the  light 
grew  stronger  it  showed  a  frown  on  his  face  that  indi 
cated  a  bitter  sense  of  disgust  and  unavailing  anger  kept 
down  by  his  whole  will. 

On  the  sofa  lay  a  child  of  four  years  old,  asleep,  with 
its  mouth  open,  its  arm  hanging  to  the  floor.  On  the  one 
arm-chair  lay  a  half -empty  nursing  bottle,  the  long  brown 
tube  dropping  slow  drops  of  milk  to  the  rug,  where  they 
had  formed  a  small  puddle.  Hardy  picked  it  up,  set  it 
on  the  chimney-piece,  and  then,  still  frowning,  bent  and 
gently  wiped  the  sleeping  child's  little  nose  on  his  own 
handkerchief.  ' '  God  help  me !  "  he  said,  half  aloud,  as 
he  turned,  and  took  off  his  coat,  his  collar  and  his  cuffs. 

These  carefully  folded  away  in  a  drawer,  he  drew  on 
a  shabby  dressing-gown,  one  sleeve  of  which  was  smeared 
with  some  sticky  substance ;  it  was  jam.  Bending  to  the 
lamp  he  scraped  it  off  with  a  paper  knife,  and  then  going 
to  the  kitchen,  rubbed  it  with  a  damp  towel. 

Katie  stood  by  the  stove,  her  head  tied  up,  frying  the 
chops,  the  smoke  of  which  hung  about  her  in  clouds. 

"  'd'you  find  the  matches,  Mr.  Hardy?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  Katie.  I  see  you  have  toothache  again.  I  am 
sorry.  I  'd  have  it  out  if  I  were  you. ' ' 

The  girl  shook  her  head.  "I'm  afraid  to.  Oh — • 
there's  MacDougall  waked  up.  He'll  wake  the  baby,  he's 
yelling  so." 

Hardy  hurried  back  to  his  study  to  find  the  child,  its 
fat  face  seamed  and  crimson  with  sleep,  sitting  up,  and 
calling  loudly  for  its  bottle. 

"  Be  still,  MacDougall,  I'll  fetch  your  milk.  Be  a 
10 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

good  boy,  and  don't  wake  Baby  and  Little  Baby."  He 
was  conscious  of  his  weakness  towards  his  children,  but 
there  was  no  middle  way  for  him.  On  days  such  as  this, 
when  he  had  a  feeling  very  like  hatred  towards  all  his 
surroundings,  his  only  refuge  was  in  this  great  gentleness 
that  deluded  every  one,  and  nearly  killed  himself  in  its 
accomplishment. 

As  he  came  back  from  the  kitchen  again,  this  time 
with  the  bottle  filled  with  milk,  his  wife  came  slowly 
downstairs,  a  baby  of  a  little  more  than  a  year  in  her 
arms. 

She  wore  a  loose  drab  dressing-gown  of  some  sort,  and 
her  slippers  clacked  as  she  walked. 

"  Dear  me,  King,  what  is  the  matter  with  MacDou 
gall?  "  she  began,  fretfully,  following  him  into  the 
study.  "  He  woke  Anabel,  and  I'm  just  worn  out.  Har 
old  was  so  fretful  all  day." 

' '  I  'm  very  sorry,  Abby,  my  poor  girl.  Be  still,  Mac- 
Dougall.  What's  wrong  with  Harold?  " 

"  Stomach-ache,  I  suppose,"  she  returned,  sinking 
down  into  a  chair  as  MacDougall  subsided  into  quiet, 
hugging  the  precious  bottle  to  his  breast.  "  I  never  saw 
such  children  as  ours  for  stomach-ache.  I'm  sure  they 
haven't  it  from  my  side.  None  of  us  ever  had  it  as  far 
back  as  I  can  remember." 

Hardy  laughed  harshly.  "  Then  it  must  be  an  in 
heritance  from  the  Hardys.  Isn't  MacDougall  too  old  to 
have  a  bottle,  Abby  ?  ' ' 

She  did  not  notice  his  little  outburst;  it  was  a  very 
little  one,  and  she  was  not  observant. 
3  11 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

' '  Of  course  he 's  too  big, ' '  she  answered ;  "  he 's  a 
naughty  boy,  and  a  black  man  will  fetch  him  if  he 
doesn  't  learn  to  eat  nicely  with  a  spoon. ' ' 

Before  the  indignant  MacDougall  could  protest,  Ka 
tie,  who  had  been  in  the  opposite  room,  setting  the  table, 
announced  that  dinner  was  ready,  and  the  little  baby  be 
ing  luckily  asleep  again,  and  laid  in  a  safe  position  on  the 
sofa,  the  rest  of  the  family  grouped  itself  around  the 
table.  Hardy  closed  his  eyes  and  asked  the  blessing,  and 
the  meal  began.  The  soup  was  cold  and  greasy ;  the  chops 
burnt  outside,  raw  \vithin;  the  potatoes  soggy  and  un 
cooked. 

Hardy  partook  of  everything,  grimly,  doggedly,  with 
out  knowing  what  he  ate.  Two  of  the  elder  boys  had 
been  quarreling,  and  one  of  them  had  a  swollen  nose. 

"  Didn't  I  just  knock  you  out  with  one  finger!  "  said 
the  other,  sucking  up  his  soup  noisily. 

"  You  lie,  you  beast.  You  used  your  beastly  boots, 
and  that's  cheating." 

"  Be  silent,  Eustace,"  interrupted  the  father. 
"  Anna,  scrape  that  sauce  off  your  bib.  Katie,  a  fresh 
bib  to-morrow  for  Anna.  Abby,  try  to  eat  another  chop, 
my  dear " 

At  length  it  was  over,  the  children  had  said  good 
night  to  their  father,  the  elder  ones  shaking  hands  with 
him,  the  younger  bestowing  on  him  kisses  which  he  re 
turned  with  a  "  God  bless  you."  Then  he  locked  the 
study  door  and  sat  down  at  his  table. 

Katie,  in  the  kitchen,  had  a  visitor,  a  young  butcher 
from  Borrowdaile. 

12 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

"  I  seen  him  a-pounding  up  that  there  lane  this  even 
ing,  but  'e  didn  't  see  me.  He 's  a  rum  'un,  your  master. ' ' 

Katie  tossed  her  head.  "  He's  a  very  good  master, 
and  a  very  good  man,  too,  Mr.  Ibbetts.  He  has  enough  to 
worry  most  men  an '  make  'em  as  cross  as  Sancho,  but  'e 's 
never  cross.  Like  a  lamb,  'e  is — which  you  can't  be  ex 
pected  to  reckonize,  your  last  lamb  being  an  old  ram,  Mr. 
Ibbetts!  " 

Mr.  Ibbetts  was  not  impervious  to  sarcasm,  and  went 
on  to  explain  that  he  meant  no  'arm,  not  'e,  and  that  so 
far  as  'c  knew,  Mr.  'Ardy  was  an  angel. 

' '  He 's  as  kind  as  kind  can  be,  every  one  knows  that, ' ' 
he  added,  "  but  Vs  queer  and  absent-minded  at  times. 
Like  enough  planning  one  of  his  good  deeds." 

This  recalled  the  injured  mason  to  Katie's  mind,  and 
knocking  at  the  study  door,  she  reminded  her  master  of 
his  presence  and  probable  need  of  help.  Hardy  groaned, 
as  the  girl  went  back  to  the  kitchen,  and  then  falling  to 
his  knees  he  prayed  in  silence  for  a  few  minutes  before 
going,  humbled  and  sad,  to  his  neglected  guest. 

The  man  lay  on  his  back,  his  head  buried  uncomfort 
ably  in  the  soft  pillow,  his  face,  seen  by  the  light  Hardy 
brought  with  him,  distorted  with  pain  and  impatience. 

'  If  you'd  'ave  let  me  go  home  to  my  wife  I  wouldn't 
'ave  been  forgot  like  this, ' '  he  began  as  Hardy  raised  his 
head  and  rearranged  the  pillow.  "  All  very  well  to  'ave 
nothing  but  milk,  but  it's  'ard  on  a  man  not  to  'ave  even 
the  milk." 

"  I  know,  Briggs,  I  know,"  answered  Hardy,  hum 
bly.  "  I  did  forget,  and  I  beg  your  pardon.  The  milk 

13 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

is    coming,    and    the    doctor    will    be    here    in  a  few 
minutes. ' ' 

' '  Begging  pardon  don 't  do  much  good,  when  a  man 's 
got  such  pains  in  'is  legs  as  I  have.  That 's  wot  comes  of 
letting  other  folks  meddle  with  your  private  affairs,  I 
didn  't  want  to  come  'ere,  you  can 't  deny  that.  You  may 
ha'  meant  kindly,  I'm  not  saying  no  to  that,  Mr.  'Ardy, 
but  as  far  as  comfort  goes,  I  'd  ha '  been  better  off  at  'ome, 
with  the  old  woman  to  look  after  me. ' ' 

Hardy  sat  by  him  in  silence,  his  head  on  one  hand, 
and  received  the  rough  blows,  which  grew  worse  as  the 
milk  did  not  come,  without  protest. 

It  was  the  old  story.  He  had  meant  kindly  in  bring 
ing  the  man  here,  and  then,  forgetting  him,  had  done 
more  harm  than  good,  and  was  filled  with  shame. 

He  had  sat  there  in  his  study,  given  up  completely  to 
the  torturing  joys  of  dreaming  of  the  old  days  when  he 
had  sinned  and  been  splendidly  happy,  while  up  here  in 
the  dingy,  dark  room,  his  suffering  guest  lay  neglected. 
The  light  from  the  lamp  fell  on  his  bowed  head,  showing 
the  coarse  white  hairs  that  were  strewn  sparsely  among 
the  dark  locks;  the  square  low  brow  seamed  with  two 
deep  lines,  and  now  drawn  with  remorse  and  pain;  the 
deep  eye  sockets,  the  short  straight  nose,  and  the  mous 
tache  so  heavy  that  the  mouth,  when  in  repose,  was  com 
pletely  hidden. 

The  feverish,  homesick,  coarse-grained  man  in  the  bed 
talked  on,  growing  rougher  and  more  cruel  as  time 
passed,  but  Hardy,  his  jaw  set  grimly,  one  hand  clenched 
in  the  shadow,  did  not  answer. 

14 


HE    AND    HECUBA 

When  the  milk  came,  he  gave  a  little  to  his  patient, 
and  as  he  set  down  the  cup,  a  ring  at  the  house-door 
echoed  up  the  narrow  stairs  and  caught  his  ear.  Telling 
Katie  to  sit  with  Briggs  for  a  minute,  Hardy  ran  softly 
down  and,  opening  the  door,  admitted  the  doctor. 

"  Good  evening,  Tench,  I  am  glad  you  have  come," 
he  said,  shaking  hands  with  the  little  man  in  the  long 
coat.  "  He's  suffering  a  good  deal,  poor  fellow." 

' '  Ugh.    Homesick,  too,  I  '11  be  bound  ?  ' ' 

Hardy  nodded.  "  Yes.  Perhaps  I  was  wrong,  I 
often  am.  You  know  the  way,  and  if  you'll  go  up  I'll 
mend  the  fire  here  and  get  out  some  whisky  for  you. 
Tench," — he  added  as  the  doctor  started  upstairs — 
"  just  step  a  little  softly,  will  you,  like  a  good  fellow. 
My  wife — my  wife  doesn't  like  my  bringing  people  in, 
you  know,  and  she  was  out  this  afternoon,  so  I  haven't 
mentioned  it  to  her. ' ' 

Tench  nodded  and  tiptoed  his  way  past  the  door  be 
hind  which  he  could  picture  the  helpless  helpmate  of  his 
friend  sitting  in  dreary  idleness. 

Katie,  having  overheard  some  of  the  sick  man's  re 
marks,  seized  the  opportunity  of  being  alone  with  him 
to  give  him  a  severe  scolding.  Tench  found  the  two 
enjoying  a  battle  that  had  brought  a  bright  color  to  the 
cheeks  of  his  patient  and  a  too-great  heat  to  his  big  hands. 

After  sending  the  loyal  and  sharp-tongued  woman 
out  of  the  room,  and  examining  Briggs,  the  little  doctor 
went  downstairs,  rubbing  one  ear  thoughtfully. 

"  He's  going  to  have  a  bad  night  I  fear,  Hardy.  That 
she-devil  of  yours  has  been  pitching  into  him  and  work- 

15 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

ing  him  into  a  fever— Katie,  I  mean,"  he  added  hastily, 
as  Hardy  looked  up  aghast, ' '  and  he 's  restless  and  home 
sick.  I'll  write  out  a  prescription  for  him,  and  if  you'll 
let  Katie  go  down  with  me  I'll  go  to  Woolley,  and  have 
him  make  it  up — it's  a  quieting  draught." 

He  drank  his  whisky  standing,  and  then  drew  on  his 
coat,  that  Hardy  had  hung  by  the  kitchen  stove  to  dry, 
and  was  now  steaming  and  spongy. 

"  Call  the  girl,  will  you?  " 

Hardy  hesitated.  "  If  you'll  have  the  prescription 
made  out,  Tench,  I'll  see  that  it's  fetched  in  half  an 
hour." 

"  Very  well.  Good  night."  The  doctor  growled 
inarticulately  to  himself  as  he  went  down  the  slip 
pery  garden  path.  He  knew  perfectly  well  that 
Hardy  would  fetch  the  medicine  himself,  but  he  did  not 
dare  remonstrate.  The  Rector,  left  alone,  locked  the 
house,  sent  Katie  to  bed  with  a  poultice  of  his  own  mak 
ing  on  her  aching  cheek,  and  then,  after  a  final  look  at 
Briggs,  who  had  fallen  into  a  restless  sleep,  went  out  into 
the  rainy  darkness.  At  the  garden  gate  he  came  on  a 
woman  standing  looking  up  at  the  house.  It  was  Mrs. 
Briggs,  a  scold  and  an  inciter  to  rebellion,  an  avowed  ene 
my  to  all  parsons,  and  an  unavowed  but  well-known 
friend  to  the  bottle.  ' '  It 's  my  man, ' '  she  began  at  once. 
' '  I  was  wondering  'ow  'e  is.  I  ain  't  a-doing  no  'arm. ' ' 

Hardy  paused  a  minute.  She  was  horribly  antipa 
thetic  to  him,  and  he  dreaded  the  tale  her  tongue  would 
tell  of  his  household  circumstances,  but  she  was  Briggs 's 
wife,  and  she  was  not  drunk. 

16 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

"  Perhaps,"  he  said,  gently,  reopening  the  gate, 
"  you  would  like  to  see  him,  Mrs.  Briggs?  Or  even  to— 
to  spend  the  night  with  him  ?  I  can't  give  you  a  bed,  but 
I  can  give  you  a  mattress " 

The  woman  accepted  his  offer  eagerly,  curiosity  as  to 
the  interior  of  the  Rectory  mingling  with  her  anxiety 
about  her  husband.  Hardy  went  back  with  her,  showed 
her  the  way  upstairs,  and  then,  leaving  her  sitting  by  the 
sick  man,  once  more  went  out. 

He  came  back,  the  medicine  in  his  pocket,  aching  with 
the  effort  he  had  been  making  for  hours,  and  tired  to 
death,  but  an  hour  later,  when  the  clock  struck  half-past 
twelve,  he  lay  down,  dressed,  on  the  broken-springed 
sofa  in  his  study.  He  had  given  his  mattress  to  the  wo 
man  upstairs. 


17 


CHAPTER   III 

A  WEEK  late,  La.dy  Yarrow,  coming  in  from  a  walk, 
was  met  at  the  house-door  by  her  guest,  who  told  her,  be 
tween  the  puffs  of  a  cigarette,  that  she,  Madame  Perez, 
had  rented  the  Liscom  place,  and  meant  to  pass  the  win 
ter  there. 

Mary  looked  into  the  lazy  eyes  with  surprise.  ' '  Lis 
com  House!  But  why,  if  you  can  stand  it  here,  don't 
you  stay  with  us  ?  Yarrow  will  be  broken-hearted ! ' ' 

' '  But  you  won 't.  Ah,  I  know  that  you  don 't  like  me, 
and  believe  me,  I  am  not  in  the  least  offended.  You  are 
far  too  good  to  offend.  If  I  were  here,  always  dans  votre 
cliemin,  you  would  soon  hate  me,  and  I  should  be  sorry 
for  that!  For  you  see,  I  like  you  hugely— one  says 
'  hugely  '?  " 

Lady  Yarrow  laughed.  "  One  says  '  hugely  '  on  oc 
casion.  Come  and  tell  me  more  about  your  plans,  and 
don 't  imagine  that  I  don 't  like  you,  for  I  do,  indeed. ' ' 

Tall  and  graceful  she  led  the  way  upstairs,  into  her 
morning-room,  and  when  the  maid  had  left  them,  the  two 
women  sat  down  and  smiled  expectantly  at  each  other. 
Madame  Perez  spoke  first,  slowly,  weighing  her  words  a 
little,  as  she  leaned  back  in  her  chair. 

"  Dear  Lady  Yarrow,  '  liking  '  is  such  an  elastic 
word,  isn't  it?  In  English,  I  mean.  One  likes  one's 

18 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

tailor  because  he  makes  good  skirts;  one  likes  one's  maid 
because  she  understands  hair  and  lace,  and — one  likes 
one's  friends— sometimes.  Loving  of  course  is  different. 
One  can  love  with  all  one's  strength  without  being  loved 
in  return,  whereas  of  all  the  people  I  have  ever  known, 
I  am  my  own  self  the  only  one  who  can  like  unreturned. 
How  did  we  get  to  this  point?  I  began  with  telling  you 
about  Liscom  House—  Well,  I  like  you  very  much,  and 
you  do  not  like  me  at  all.  Or  rather,  you  like  me  through 
your  husband 's  pleasure  in  my  beauty. ' ' 

She  paused,  and  Mary,  quite  taken  aback  by  the  out 
burst  of  discerning  frankness,  answered  in  kind,  as  best 
she  could. 

"  I  protest.  You  and  I  have  little  in  common.  Noth 
ing,  I  might  say,  and  therefore  we  could  never  really  be 
friends,  but,  so  long  as  you  insist  on  talking  about  it,  I 
have  not  yet  seen  in  you  anything  that  I  dislike." 

The  other  woman  laughed.  "  Voila!  '  not  yet,'  you 
say.  You  are  like  a  traveler  in  a  dark  night  who  knows 
that  when  he  can  see  he  will  see— bones  and  things.  You 
understand?  Now  I  know  that  you  will  never  let  me 
know  you,  but  that  if  I  did  I  should  see  only  things  I  ad 
mire  and  respect.  And  this  is  why  I  am  staying  on  in  the 
neighborhood.  I  like  it  all  so  much.  I  like  the  sea,  and— 
believe  this — I  like  giving  Lord  Yarrow  the  pleasure  of 
painting  me." 

There  was  a  certain  simplicity  in  the  way  she  uttered 
the  last  words  that  touched  Lady  Yarrow. 

"  Thanks.  I  do  believe  you,  and  I  am  very  grateful 
to  you  for  your  patience.  Another  thing,  Madame  Perez 

19 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

— I  can  not  tell  you  how  much  I  admire  your  lack  of 
vanity. ' ' 

Madame  Perez  laughed  a  little.  "  No,  I  am  not  vain. 
Perhaps  because  most  people  bore  me,  and— I  don't  care 
what  they  think.  Enfin, — it  is  not  to  my  credit.  One 
is  born  either  vain  or  not  vain !  ' : 

"  A  very  fatalistic  view,"  returned  Lady  Yarrow, 
poking  the  fire  gently. 

"  Fatalistic?  Yes,  I  am  that.  Most  Catholics  are, 
though  they  do  not  know  it.  But  consider.  Men  see  me 
and  say, '  My  God,  what  a  beauty, '  and  then  they  bore  me 
and  I  bore  them  in  return,  and  they  go  away.  It  is  so 
simple!  However,  I  like  some  people  very  much.  You 
will  understand  me  when  I  say  that  I  more  than  like 
Lord  Yarrow.  I  love  him,  and  he  shall  paint  me  until  one 
days  he  says, '  Madame  Perez,  I  have  enough.  Go  away. ' 
And  your  old  uncle  with  the  face  of  an  angel  with  human 
eyes.  Him  I  love,  too.  I  don't  love  you.  A  woman  never 
loves  another  woman  unless  it  be  of  her  family,  born  in 
her  blood,  but  just  to  see  you,  and  hear  you  sing  '  O 
wtisst  ich  nur,'  I  am  staying.  In  your  house,  no,  with 
all  thanks  for  your  goodness  to  me,  but  near  you,  where 
I  can  see  you  as  much  as  you  can  support." 

In  all  the  six  months  she  had  known  Madame  Perez, 
Mary  Yarrow  had  not  heard  her  talk  as  much  as  in  that 
half-hour  in  the  little  chintz-hung  room;  and  never,  in 
spite  of  the  disquieting,  unsolicited  personality  of  her 
remarks,  had  the  Englishwoman  been  so  near  liking  the 
other,  who  had  so  unexpectedly  understood  her  and  the 
nature  of  her  feelings. 

20 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

"  You  are  a  very  extraordinary  person,"  she  said 
after  a  short  pause, ' '  and  you  embarrass  me,  but  I  appre 
ciate  the  kindness  to  my  husband,  which  is  also  a  kind 
ness  to  me,  and  I  hope  you  will  not  repent  having  decided 
to  take  the  house.  It  is  a  charming  house,  by  the  way, 
and  I  hope  to  see  you  often  in  it,  as  well  as  here,  where 
you  will  always  be  welcome." 

Madame  Perez  rose.  ' '  Thank  you.  You  are  now  go 
ing  to  Lord  Yarrow  and  I  to  take  a  walk.  To-night  you 
will  sing  me  the  Brahms  song." 

She  walked  slowly  to  her  room,  trailing  her  skirts, 
which  always  seemed  longer  and  more  graceful  than  the 
skirts  of  other  women,  her  head  bent,  her  hands  clasped 
behind  her.  Half  an  hour  later  she  was  going  up  the  long 
avenue  of  the  house  she  had  rented  for  a  year,  a  big  key 
in  her  muff. 

It  was  about  three  o'clock,  and  a  yellow,  lifeless  sun 
cast  shadows  on  the  frozen  grass,  which  was  already  sil 
vered  in  sheltered  places. 

The  air  was  chill ;  it  was  going  to  be  a  cold  night,  and 
winter  was  coming. 

Madame  Perez  paused  from  time  to  time,  and  looked 
about  her  with  the  bright  eyes  of  one  gazing  on  a  new 
possession.  The  old  trees,  each  one  bent  slightly  towards 
the  sinking  sun  as  though  bowing  to  it,  but  in  reality  not 
saluting,  but  humbled  by  their  enemy  the  sea-wind, 
pleased  her,  and  she  determined  to  have  a  heating  appa 
ratus  put  in  the  little  Greek  temple  at  the  top  of  the  slope 
behind  the  evergreen  hedge. 

"  I  shall  have  it  glassed  in,"  she  thought,  "  and 
21 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

warm,  with  red  cushions  and  an  open  fire — and  I  shall 
sit  there  when  it  is  very  cold  and  snowy,  and  be  warm, 
and  comfortable,  and  alone." 

The  house,  a  rather  neglected  building  of  Queen 
Anne 's  time,  stood  at  the  top  of  the  gradual  slope,  and  its 
red  walls,  still  festooned  with  shabby  patches  of  creepers, 
seemed  to  have  drawn  into  itself  all  the  warmth  and  com 
fort  of  the  scene. 

Madame  Perez  stood  still  for  a  few  minutes,  looking 
at  it  with  new  eyes.  The  last  time  she  had  seen  it  it  had 
been  potentially,  now  it  was  actually,  hers.  ' '  I  shall  live 
here, ' '  she  said,  aloud,  ' '  and  be  happy,  and  ill  possibly, 
— and  even,  possibly,  suffer  here."  Then  she  started, 
for  King  Hardy  stood  beside  her,  and  he  had  heard. 

"  You  are  trespassing,  Monsieur,"  she  began,  laugh 
ing,  and  holding  out  her  hand,  the  key  in  it,  to  him. 
"  The  house  is  mine,  and  the  ox  and  the  ass — it  is  all 
mine. ' ' 

Hardy  shook  hands  with  her  and  stood  with  bare 
head.  "  You  have  bought  it?  " 

' '  No.  But  I  have  rented  it,  and  I  am  going  to  live  here 
for  a  year.  As  I  was  telling  myself,  I  am  going,  in  this 
house,  to  be  happy,  unhappy,  give  dinners,  have  head 
aches — possibly  even  die  here.  Can  you  not  imagine  my 
coffin  being  jolted  down  the  steps  there,  and  the  neighbors 
standing  around  trying  to  look  sorry  1  ' ; 

' '  I  hope  you  will  be  happy, ' '  he  returned,  a  little  ab 
sently.  "  It  is  cold,  is  it  not?  " 

They  had  met  once  since  that  first  time  at  Borrowdaile, 
at  a  dinner  at  the  Dudley's,  but  had  not  found  that  sym- 

22 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

pathy  that  goes  to  making  friendly  acquaintance.  Hardy 
had  indeed  avoided  her,  as  having  been  the  indirect  cause 
of  one  of  the  worst  mental  debauches,  as  he  savagely 
called  them,  that  he  had  had  for  months. 

The  man  shivered  in  his  thin  overcoat,  while  she, 
warm  and  rosy  in  her  sables,  smiled  politely  and  waited 
for  him  to  take  his  leave. 

Suddenly  he  said,  as  he  picked  up  the  key  that  she 
had  let  fall,  and  holding  it  in  his  hand,  "  If  you  are  go 
ing  to  live  here  for  a  year,  Madame— Perez,  you  will  be 
my  parishioner." 

"  Yours?  No,  I  am  a  Catholic,  and  besides,  I 
thought  this  house  was  in  Mr.  Dudley's  parish?  " 

"  No.  Liscom  is  just  within  my  bounds.  We  are 
very  poor,  we  of  Carbury,  and  for  two  years  have  had  no 
one  to  help  us,  except  Lord  Yarrow,  who  is  my  friend.  I 
warn  you,  I  am  very  bold  about  begging,  and  shall  beg 
of  you,  although  you  are  a  Catholic!  " 

She  looked  at  him  thoughtfully.  "  I  can  fancy 
that  you  are  bold.  Well,  I  will  help  you,  Mr.  Hardy. 
That  is,  I  will  give  you  money.  I  will  not  help  trim  the 
church,  nor  visit  the  poor.  I  hate  the  poor  near  me.  I 
mean  in  England.  Of  course  the  poor  of  southern  coun 
tries  are  to  be  envied  rather  than  pitied."  Hardy  did 
not  care  in  the  least  for  her  opinion  as  to  the  poor  of 
southern  countries. 

' '  Then  you  will  ?  Thank  you  a  thousand  times.  If 
you  knew  how  I  have  been  dreading  the  winter  for 
them." 

"  Let  me  know  what  you  need.  There  is  no  Catholic 
23 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

church  here,  and  I  like  English  sermons.  You  won't 
mind  my  going  to  Mr.  Dudley's  church?  " 

He  held  out  his  hand.  "  Not  at  all,  not  at  all.  My 
church  is  not  for  women  like  you,  and  you  will  be  in  bet 
ter  hands  than  mine  at  Borrowdaile,  God  knows. ' ' 

She  watched  him  as  he  walked  quickly  down  the  ave 
nue,  his  square  head  thrown  back,  still  uncovered  in  his 
excitement.  He  walked  very  well,  and  she  decided  that 
she  liked  him,  his  zeal  for  his  people  reminding  her  of 
certain  missionary  priests  in  the  old  days  in  Chili. 

Still  thinking  of  Padre  Ignacio,  she  opened  the  door 
of  the  house  and  wras  about  to  go  in,  when  footsteps 
caused  her  to  turn,  and  she  saw  Hardy  again. 

"  I  am  very  idiotic,  Madame  Perez,"  he  said,  joining 
her,  "  not  to  have  realized  at  once  that  you  mustn't  go 
through  this  empty  house  alone.  Allow  me  to  accompany 
you." 

"  There  is  no  danger;  I  am  not  afraid." 

"  You  may  not  be  afraid,  but  the  house  has  been, 
empty  for  two  years.  Do  you  wish  to  go  upstairs  first  ?  ' : 

Surprised,  she  allowed  him  to  lead  the  way,  opening 
windows,  unlocking  doors,  and  showing  her  short  cuts 
through  the  rooms  that  she  had  not  seen  before. 

"  It  was  one  of  the  pleasantest  houses  in  the  coun 
try,"  he  said  once.  "  It  will  be  good  for  Carbury  to 
have  it  inhabited  again." 

They  went  in  silence  down  the  echoing  stairs,  and 
into  the  evening.  The  sun  had  disappeared  behind  a 
curtain  of  dull  gray  clouds ;  it  was  very  cold. 

Madame  Perez  shivered  and  turned  up  her  fur  collar. 
24 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

"  One  could  not  live  in  England  without  furs.  The 
cold  here  gets  into  one 's  very  bones. ' ' 

Hardy  looked  at  her  with  a  rather  grim  smile.  He 
knew  what  cold  in  one 's  very  bones  means,  but  he  did  not 
try  to  tell  her.  He  was  happier  than  he  had  been  for 
days;  a  publishing  house  in  London  to  which  he  had 
written,  had  promised  to  read  his  book  on  the  Apostolic 
Succession,  and  somehow  he  was  hopeful  of  its  being  ac 
cepted  this  time ;  Briggs  was  better,  and  Hardy  had,  by 
a  series  of  self-inflicted  penances,  at  length  found  it  pos 
sible  to  forgive  himself  his  weakness  of  a  week  ago,  and 
his  forgetfulness  of  the  poor  man.  Now  this  new  parish 
ioner  had  come,  with  both  hands  full  of  money,  and 
money  was  what  he  needed.  The  proudest  man  in  the 
world  as  regarded  his  own  affairs,  so  sensitive  about  his 
poverty  as  to  have  alienated  several  good  friends  by  his 
ferocity  when  even  the  subtlest  offer  of  help  was  made, 
or  even  when  none  such  had  been  made,  and  his  own 
sore  imagination  was  at  fault,  he  was,  in  the  matter  of 
his  poor  people,  determinedly  and  often  troublesomely 
persistent  in  begging. 

"  I  give  all  I  can,  and  you  may  help  me  out,"  he  had 
often  said,  as  if  conferring  a  privilege,  and  in  those  cases, 
not  infrequent,  when  the  privilege  was  roundly  denied, 
and  declared  a  nuisance,  he  was  not  to  be  shaken  off, 
and  went  on  making  his  appeals  without  the  slightest 
sense  of  shame. 

Madame  Perez,  he  saw,  was  a  very  rich  woman,  whose 
carelessness  in  money  matters  he  would  scrupulously  use 
for  the  good  of  his  poor. 

25 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

And  Madame  Perez,  walking  through  the  chill  dark 
with  him,  was  thinking  of  good  old  Padre  Ignacio,  years 
ago,  when  she  was  a  fat-legged  little  girl  with  hanging 
curls  and  a  vivid  interest  in  her  own  sins  as  a  matter  of 
confession. 

They  closed  the  heavy  gates  that  she  had  opened 
alone,  and,  still  in  silence,  went  through  the  muddy  vil 
lage  streets. 

There  is  something  in  the  homely  comfort  of  evening, 
in  winter ;  in  the  splashes  of  light  as  cottage  doors  open 
and  close;  in  the  steady  glow  from  small  uncurtained 
windows,  that  appeals  to  the  imagination,  and  Hardy 
turned  up  the  collar  of  his  shabby  coat  with  a  little  thrill 
of  pleasure  in  thinking  that  he  would  soon  be  at  least 
warm.  There  was  also  to  be  beefsteak  pudding  for  din 
ner,  and  a  beefsteak  pudding  was  one  of  his  pet  dishes, 
and  one  of  Katie 's  strong  points. 

At  length  they  reached  the  little  south  gate  of  Bor- 
rowdaile  House,  and  he  paused.  "  Good  night,  Madame 
Perez.  Thank  you  very  much  for  your  promise  to  help 
my  people.  And  I  hope  you  may  indeed  be  happy  at 
Liscom. ' ' 

He  held  out  his  hand,  and  she  put  hers,  warm  from 
her  muff,  into  it.  "  Chi  vivrd  verra,"  she  answered, 
lightly. 

Hardy  started  back  as  if  stung,  and  to  her  surprise, 
stumbled  away  without  speaking.  His  peace  was  gone; 
' '  who  lives  will  see, ' ' — it  was  she  who  had  said  it  with  a 
little  shrug,  a  thousand  times  to  him. 

With  a  dull  groan  he  turned  towards  home;  it  was 
26 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

not  that  he  loved  the  woman  he  had  loved  long  ago ;  he 
had  seen  her  once  since,  grown  thin,  yellow,  and  hard- 
eyed — and  his  heart  had  not  stirred.  It  was  that  the 
memory  of  his  youth  and  his  sin  brought  back  to  him, 
with  all  the  force  of  the  memory  of  a  man  with  a  strong 
imagination,  the  very  feeling  of  his  lost  youth  and  happi 
ness.  It  was  an  unavailing,  involuntary,  painful  effort 
to  go  back  into  the  times  when  "  les  lauriers  n'etaient 
pas  encore  coupes." 

He  plodded  up  the  steep  road,  his  head  bent,  the  lines 
in  his  face,  could  they  have  been  seen,  relaxed  into  a  sort 
of  hopeless  sadness. 

His  laurels  were  cut  long  ago ;  yet  the  scent  of  them 
persisted  in  torturing  his  nostrils. 


27 


CHAPTER  IY 

MRS.  DUDLEY  was  one  of  those  women  who,  when 
their  sons  marry,  should,  instead  of  "  old  Mrs.  So-and- 
So,"  be  called  "Mary,  Mrs.  So-and-So,"  as  one  sees  writ 
ten  of  dowagers  higher  in  the  social  scale,  ' '  Mary,  Lady 
So-and-So."  Charles  Dudley  had  often  said  that  he  felt 
himself  to  be  very  deficient  in  not  giving  a  title  to  his 
wife,  and  when  his  only  son,  also  Charles,  married,  the 
elder  man  had  gravely  apologized  to  his  wife  for  his  ina 
bility  to  offer  her  at  least  the  official  title  of  "  Rebecca, 
Mrs.  Dudley. ' '  Mrs.  Dudley  was  a  very  imposing  wom 
an,  with  one  of  those  paralyzing  faces  in  the  presence  of  a 
joke  that  have  at  one  time  rebuked  and  impressed  most 
of  us.  Who  has  not  felt  ashamed  of  understanding  a 
silly  pleasantry  evidently  uncomprehended  by  some  one 
who  looks  on  with  cold  eyes  ?  Without  being  icily  regu 
lar,  her  features  were  to  a  great  extent  null,  and  her  face 
presented  that  inharmonious  expression  given  by  youth 
ful  hair  above  a  time-worn  complexion. 

However,  she  was  a  good  and  conscientious  woman, 
and  according  to  her  nature,  a  good  wife. 

In  earlier  days,  when  young  Charles  was  a  baby, 
Charles  the  Elder  had  confided  to  his  friend  and  cousin, 
the  then  Earl  of  Yarrow,  his  surprise  at  his  wife 's  moth- 

28 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

erhood.  "  To  see  her,  you  know,  holding  the  poor  little 
beggar  on  her  knee  and  looking  at  it  as  though  she  rather 
liked  it  and  wondered  where  the  dickens  it  came  from— 
it  is  wonderful,  Yarrow!  " 

The  young  Charles  had  thrived,  however,  and  grown 
to  be  surprisingly  like  his  mother. 

Dudley  used  to  watch  the  little  fellow's  solemn  ef 
forts  at  play,  his  cold  reception  of  the  stories  of  Red  Rid 
ing  Hood,  Jack  o'  the  Beanstalk  and  other  heroes,  his 
tranquil  acceptance  of  aprons  as  a  means  of  saving  his 
clothes,  with  a  wonder  not  unmixed  with  sadness.  The 
night  of  the  day  when  the  news  came  of  the  exemplary 
youth 's  marriage  with  a  music  hall  song-and-dance  artist, 
his  father  wrote  to  Lord  Yarrow,  then  at  his  place  in  the 
next  county: 

4 '  It  is  deplorable,  shocking,  and  humiliating  for  the 
family.  I  dare  say  Rebecca  is  prostrated,  and  I  hope  that 
you,  as  a  relative,  will  also  feel  the  shock,  but  for  my  part, 
George,  I  confess  it  is  the  first  act  of  the  poor  lad's  life 
that  has  ever  given  me  real  pleasure,  and  hope  for  him,  at 
once.  The  thought  of  his  having  the  character  to  marry 
at  six-and-twenty,  and  knowing,  as  he  certainly  must, 
something  of  the  world,  a  girl  from  the  stage — that  he 
had  the  courage  to  risk  his  mother 's  anger,  and  the  inevi 
table  trouble  his  act  will  bring  him,  shows  me  that  there 
is  more  in  the  lad  than  I  had  thought.  The  girl  is  young, 
pretty,  and  he  must  love  her,  so  perhaps  she'll  make  a 
man  of  him,  as  he  will,  I  trust,  make  a  fitting  wife  for  a 
gentleman,  out  of  her. ' ' 

Lord  Yarrow,  delighted  with  the  very  characteristic 
29 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

letter,  showed  it  to  his  new  daughter-in-law,  Mary  Bor- 
rowdaile,  and  she  declared  herself  to  be  wildly  in  love 
with  the  writer,  whom  she  had  never  seen.  When  the 
Borrowdailes  came  to  Borrowdaile  to  live,  and  the  young 
woman  learned  to  know  her  new  old  uncle,  as  Dudley 
called  himself,  the  falling  in  love  proved  mutual  and  the 
Rector  confided  in  her  the  pleasure  he  derived  from  his 
semi-occasional  visits  to  London,  where  his  son  and 
daughter-in-law  and  the  small  Rosalind  were  living. 

Once,  when  Charles  junior  had  had  trouble  with  a 
very  dreadful  person  whom  he  was  obliged  to  admit  on 
certain  terms  of  intimacy,  as  she  was  his  undeniable 
mother-in-law,  Lady  Yarrow  accompanied  the  old  man 
on  his  voyage  of  consolation,  and  partly  by  her  tact  and 
charm,  though  no  doubt  chiefly  by  her  position  as  Lady 
Yarrow,  and  her  uses  as  a  future  source  of  comfortable 
boastfulness,  brought  the  troublesome  Mrs.  Linker  to 
reason  and  humbleness,  to  the  content  of  every  one. 

The  Rector  loved  Mary  Yarrow  dearly,  and  she  was 
much  more  deeply  versed  in  the  woes  of  the  neighbor 
hood  than  the  masterful  Mrs.  Dudley  suspected  or  would 
have  approved. 

The  old  man  had  held  in  his  arms  and  christened  the 
poor  little  Lord  Borrowdaile,  who  lived  only  a  few  days, 
and  of  whom  no  one  ever  spoke ;  he  had  been  told  a  story 
of  which  only  Yarrow,  a  man  no  longer  in  England,  an 
other  man,  and  an  old  lady  in  the  next  county  knew  the 
truth ;  once,  when  a  story  about  the  falling  and  ruin  of  a 
new  bridge  somewhere  in  Argentine  had  appeared  in  the 
paper  with  a  list  of  dead  and  wounded  added,  Lady  Yar- 

30 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

row  had  sent  for  him  and  he  had  passed  hours  watching 
her  walking  up  and  down  the  room  with  close-wrung 
hands  and  white  lips ;  after  which  he  had  dined  with  her 
and  Yarrow,  who  knew  nothing  of  the  story  in  the  Tele 
graph,  and  was  that  evening  greatly  interested  in  a  bar 
rel  of  new  old  china  come  down  from  London,  which  the 
three  unpacked  and  admired  after  dinner.  That  was 
over  four  years  ago,  and  had  never  been  mentioned  since, 
but  neither  of  the  two  friends  had  forgotten  it,  nor  the 
day  when  a  revised  list  of  the  killed  in  the  accident  was 
published,  and  Lady  Yarrow  sent  the  Rector  a  clipping, 
under  which  she  had  written  ' '  Thank  God. ' ' 

Four  years  was  as  a  day  to  the  old  man,  but  he  had 
not  forgotten  his  youth,  and  realized  with  thankfulness 
the  length,  to  a  young  and  healthy  woman,  of  the  1,461 
days. 

Lord  Yarrow,  who  had  for  years  been  an  invalid,  at 
his  best  in  a  long  chair,  greatly  encouraged  the  friend 
ship  of  his  uncle  and  his  wife,  and  watched  the  two  with 
the  kindest  of  smiles  in  his  eyes.  His  uncle  was  perfect, 
and  his  wife  better  than  perfect  to  those  eyes,  so  what 
wonder  that  they  reflected  love  and  gentleness  as  they 
rested  on  the  old  man  and  the  young  woman. 

One  morning  late  in  November,  Mary  Yarrow  came 
into  her  husband's  study,  dressed  for  a  walk.  Half  un- 
sciously  she  had,  since  her  close  association  with  Ma 
dame  Perez,  adopted  a  strikingly  simple  mode  of  dress, 
and  to-day,  in  her  close  brown  gown  and  small  toque, 
looked,  Yarrow  thought,  more  stately  and  high-bred  than 
ever. 

31 


"  Where  is  the  tailor-made  lady  going?  "  he  asked, 
as  she  took  his  hot  hand  in  hers  and  stood  looking  down 
at  him.  She  had  never  been  drawn  towards  the  sick  as  a 
class,  but  as  her  affection  for  her  husband  grew,  her  sen 
sibility  to  every  slightest  variation  in  his  condition  in 
creased  so  that  she,  not  he,  was  like  a  barometer  register 
ing  his  every  change ;  and  his  every  change  must  be,  they 
both  knew,  ultimately  for  the  worst. 

"  What  is  it?  "  he  asked,  gently,  seeing  in  her  eyes 
the  stab  at  her  heart.  "  Do  I  look  ill?  I  slept  well, 
dearest. ' ' 

"  Oh,  Borrow,  Borrow,  I  do  love  you!  "  she  cried, 
dropping  to  her  knees  and  gathering  the  hand  she  held 
to  her  breast. 

' '  I  know.  You  have  made  me  the  happiest  man  in  the 
world  for  five  years,  and  sometimes  I  feel  as  though  I 
were  good  for  five  years  more." 

He  spoke  very  gently,  with  the  gentleness  he  always 
had  when  thinking  of  the  time  just  before  they  married. 
He  knew  the  whole  story,  she  having  told  him  herself, 
and  its  existence  had  never  been  ignored  by  either  of 
them.  Slowly  she  rose. 

"  I  am  going  to  see  Uncle  Charles,  Borrow,"  she  said, 
with  a  change  of  tone  that  answered  not  his  words  but 
that  was  in  his  voice.  "  We  are  going  to  plot  about  the 
Hardys.  Something  must  be  done,  and  he  is  so  fright 
fully  fierce.  I  asked  him  to  let  me  be  god-mother  to  the 
last  baby,  and  he  nearly  bit  my  head  off.  Now  there's 
another  one  coming,  and  it  is  going  to  be  a  hard  winter, 
and  I  know  they  have  hardly  enough  to  eat." 

32 


"  Yes;  it  is  very  terrible,  and  he  is  wrong  to  be  so 
proud  with  old  friends.  He  won't  even  let  me  tip  my 
own  god-son  at  Christmas.  Poor  King!  " 

Lady  Yarrow  fastened  her  boa.  "  Poor  King  is  a 
mule.  Uncle  Charles  thinks  I  might  possibly  manage 
her,  but  I  don't  know " 

Her  little  burst  of  half-remorseful  sentiment  over, 
Lady  Yarrow  spoke  briskly,  and  after  calling  Jarvis,  her 
husband 's  man,  to  arrange  the  easel  and  the  lights  for  the 
forthcoming  sitting,  went  quickly  away  on  her  errand 
of  intrigue  and  mercy. 

' '  Rebecca,  Mrs.  Dudley, ' '  was  at  home,  and  suspect 
ing  that  something  was  afoot,  insisted  on  Mary 's  staying 
in  the  drawing-room,  and  sent  for  the  Rector  to  come 
there,  instead  of  allowing  the  younger  woman  to  go  at 
once  to  the  study,  as  usual. 

"  So  you  have  taken  to  those  very  plain  gowns,  too, 
have  you?  "  Mrs.  Dudley  began.  "  I  do  think  them  so 
extremely  indecent.  The  back,  you  know."  Mary  bit 
her  lip. 

"  Indecent  is  such  an  elastic  term,  as  Madame  Perez 
says,  isn  't  it  ?  How  shocked  you  would  be,  for  instance, 
if  one  of  the  Apostles  should  suddenly  come  in,  in  his 
loose  dressing-gown-y  garment  and  no  boots." 

"  My  dear!  " 

Mary  wasn't  in  the  least  dear  to  Mrs.  Dudley,  and 
understood  that  the  term  was  used  rather  as  an  oppro 
brious  epithet  when  addressed  to  her  by  that  lady. 

"  Yes.  I  sometimes — hem — meditate  on  such  things. 
Oh,  Uncle  Charles,  Mrs.  Dudley  says  I  am  indecent!  " 

33 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

The  Rector  paused  in  a  square  of  sunshine  from  the 
window,  his  little  bent  figure  and  decidedly  bowed  legs 
drawn  against  it  distinctly. 

"  If  you  are  indecent,  my  dear,  then — I  wish  all  wo 
men  were  indecent!" 

Mrs.  Dudley  frowned.  "  I  wish  you  would  be  more 
careful  in  your  speech,  Charles,"  she  said.  "  That 
sounds  very  shocking  for  a  clergyman  of  the  Church  of 
God." 

' '  Of  England,  my  love, ' '  protested  the  Rector,  mild 
ly.  "  And  I  merely  meant  that  I  wish  there  were  more 
women  like  Mary." 

"  Will  you  come  for  a  walk  with  me,  Uncle 
Charles?  "  Lady  Yarrow  asked.  It  was  malicious  of  her 
to  call  him  that  quite  so  often  in  the  presence  of  the  lady 
whom  she  invariably  addressed  as  ' '  Mrs.  Dudley. ' ' 

' '  He  cannot  go  this  morning.  The  Rector  never  goes 
out  on  a  Thursday  morning,  as  he  is  busy  with  parish 
business." 

"  The  Rector  is  a  worm,  and  as  such,  my  love,  he 
sometimes  cannot  resist  a  turn.  Come,  Mary,  let  us 
take  one.  The  sun  is  glorious,  and  we'll  go  down  to  the 
cove. ' ' 

Mrs.  Dudley  was  not  hurt.  She  was  never  hurt,  but 
she  was  angry,  and  left  the  room  at  once  with  much  dig 
nity  and  a  back  view  that,  considering  the  new  cut  of 
self-respecting  skirts,  amused  Mary.  But  in  a  few  min 
utes  the  old  man  and  the  young  woman,  walking  sea 
wards,  with  the  strong  breeze  blowing  their  hair  back  over 
their  ears,  had  quite  forgotten  the  little  scene,  and  were 

34 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

busy  plotting  about  that  most  irritating  and  imprac 
ticable  Hardy. 

"  If  he  won't  hear  reason,  you'll  have  to  go  to  see  her. 
No  doubt  she  will  prove  more  sensible,  poor  woman,"  the 
Rector  said,  scrambling  nimbly  up  a  steep,  stiff-frozen 
bank,  and  turning  to  help  Mary.  "  The  man  has  no 
right  to  condemn  his  family  to  misery  to  save  his  pride. 
A  very  unrighteous  sort  of  pride,  I  consider  it,  too.  But 
I  '11  make  one  more  effort  to  make  him  see  reason.  I  don 't 
quite  like  sneaking  even  in  such  a  good  cause." 

"  Nor  do  I,"  she  answered  with  vehemence.  "  One 
can't  help  respecting  him,  but  he  is  cruel  to  his  children 
and  ruining  them  by  indulgence  at  the  same  time.  I  have 
no  patience  with  him." 

"  I  have.  I  have  a  great  deal.  By  Jove,  Mary — 
there  he  is!  Suppose  I  run  on,  beard  him,  and  then 
rejoin  you.  He  can't  kill  me  out  of  doors  in  broad 
daylight —  '  Mary  nodded,  and  the  old  man  was  off, 
actually  running  over  the  frozen,  hummocky  grass. 

"  Hardy!  Hey,  King!  "  she  heard  him  call,  and 
then  she  saw  the  younger  man  turn  back. 

Half  hidden  by  the  irregularities  of  the  ground,  she 
sat  on  a  big  stone  and  waited.  The  grass,  silvered  with 
frost  and  now  ceding  to  the  noon  warmth,  hung  in  tan 
gles,  bent  and  broken,  curved  and  stiff,  small  drops  of 
water  hanging  from  some  of  the  blades,  other  blades  like 
tiny  swords.  Mary  watched  it  closely;  it  was  beautiful 
on  its  way;  she  wondered  what  wee  beasts  had  deserted 
the  tiny  jungle  at  the  approach  of  cold;  on  what  de 
serted  homes  she  was  looking  unknowing.  Nature  had 

35 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

never  interested  her  particularly,  but  she  knew  how  to 
use  her  eyes,  and  intuitively  studied  anything  that  was 
put  before  her.  When  at  length  she  heard  footsteps  she 
said,  without  looking  up :  "  Well,  what  did  he  say  ?  ' ' 

' '  He  said, ' '  returned  a  voice  that  brought  her  to  her 
feet  with  a  start  of  dismay, ' '  that  he  resented  and  would 
always  resent  any  meddling  in  his  private  affairs,  and 
that  he  considered  such  meddling  from  anybody — from 
anybody,  Lady  Yarrow — a " 

"  A  damned  impertinence,"  she  finished,  quietly. 

Hardy  burst  into  a  rough  laugh.  ' '  Yes.  I  beg  your 
pardon  for  being  rude,  but  that  I  can  not  and  will  not  en 
dure.  You  and  Mr.  Dudley  have  no  more  right  to  inter 
fere  with  my  private  affairs  than  I  have  to  interfere  in 
yours,  and  it  must  stop. ' ' 

' '  Ah.  I  quite  admit  that  we  have  no  more  right  to  be 
interested  in  your  children  than  you  would  have  to  be 
in  ours  if — if  we  had  any ; — no  more,  Mr.  Hardy,  but  as 
much.  You  are  Borrow 's  friend,  have  been  his  friend  all 
his  life,  and  if — if  our  little  boy  had  lived,  and  you  had 
seen  us  neglecting  him — injuring  him  to  gratify  a  stupid 
weakness  that  we  called  our  pride,  would  you  not  try  to 
change  things?  "  They  had  gone  instinctively  back  to 
the  road,  and  turned  towards  the  village.  Mary  had 
quite  forgotten  Mr.  Dudley. 

"  The  cases  are  not  analogous.  I  do  not  neglect  my 
children, ' '  he  answered,  his  voice  hard  with  his  effort  at 
self-control. 

"  The  cases  are  analogous.  You  may  not  neglect  your 
children,  but— you  ill-treat  them.  Look  at  them.  Are 

36 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

they  what  the  children  of  a  gentleman  ought  to  be  ?  No. 
You  arc  a  poor  man  with  a  large  family,  and  you  are  al- 
towing  this  silly,  stiff-necked  pride  to  ruin  them.  It  is 
your  duty  to  let  Borrow  help  you.  He  would  let  you 
help  him  in  a  similar  case." 

Hardy  was  very  white,  and  looked  like  an  animal  at 
bay. 

"  Good  morning,"  he  gasped,  suddenly.  "  I  can 
not  control  myself  any  longer,"  and  he  was  off,  leaving 
Mary  rather  frightened  at  her  own  daring,  and  yet  glad 
that  she  had  forced  the  man  to  hear  the  bald  truth  for 
once.  Suddenly  she  laughed  aloud.  She  had  forgotten 
Mr.  Dudley !  Turning  again,  she  went  back  to  find  him. 


37 


CHAPTER   V 

THAT  afternoon  Mrs.  Hardy  was  sitting  in  a  rocking- 
chair  which  would  not  rock,  as  one  rocker  was  broken, 
looking  out  of  the  window. 

There  was  little  to  see;  the  small  garden,  sloping 
steeply  to  the  road ;  the  gate,  of  which  the  top  hinge  was 
missing;  a  row  of  bare  currant  bushes;  a  round  bed  in 
which  no  flowers  had  been  planted  for  over  two  years; 
beyond,  the  frozen  road  with  long  narrow  strips  of  ice 
gleaming  in  the  deep  ruts,  the  village  huddled  at  the  foot 
of  the  hill. 

Mrs.  Hardy  knew  the  scene  by  heart,  and  neither 
loved  nor  hated  it :  she  simply  looked  at  it  because  it  was 
there. 

In  her  bed  in  the  corner  the  baby  was  asleep,  and  the 
next  child,  also  asleep,  lay  on  a  sofa,  a  chair  in  front 
of  it. 

The  carpet  was  worn  to  a  colorless  confusion  of  de 
sign,  and  was  ragged  in  more  than  one  place ;  the  water- 
jug  had  no  handle,  and  the  basin  was  of  another  pattern. 
On  the  table  near  Mrs.  Hardy  stood  a  basket  full  of 
worn  clothes,  stringless  and  buttonless,  but  she  was  not 
sewing. 

A  clock  downstairs  struck  three ;  but  the  clock  on  the 
38 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

chimney-piece  opposite  her  said  twenty  minutes  before 
four.  Mrs.  Hardy  sighed  patiently.  There  was  after  all 
no  particular  use  in  knowing  the  exact  time.  It  was  a 
blessing  to  have  MacDougall  away  at  Miss  Tench's,  and 
the  babies  both  asleep. 

She  heard  footsteps  on  the  stair,  and  looked  uneasily 
around,  drawing  a  pair  of  trousers  from  the  mending- 
basket  and  passing  her  hand  through  a  great  hole  in  the 
seat,  a  harmless  deception  that  she  hardly  even  hoped 
would  deceive  the  new  comer ;  King  had  a  way  of  looking 
as  if  he  thought  things.  Hardy  came  in,  walking  very 
softly  in  his  coarse  boots.  "  Both  asleep?  That's  a  treat 
for  you,  poor  old  girl!  "  he  said,  sitting  down. 

He  had  not  been  home  to  luncheon,  and  looked  ill,  she 
thought.  "  Where's  MacDougall?  " 

"  Miss  Tench  came  and  took  him  to  spend  the  day 
with  her.  It's  such  a  relief,  King."  Tears  came  to  her 
eyes,  and  her  thin  lips  shook. 

"  Of  course  it  is  a  relief,  Abby.  Do  you  think  I 
don't  know  what  a — a  hard  life  you  have.  But  I 
can  help  it.  You  know  I  can't  help  it?  "  he  added, 
wistfully. 

' '  I  know.  Of  course  you  can 't.  If  I  were  not  always 
so  tired.  You  don 't  know  what  it  is  to  be  always  so  tired. 
Oh,  laws!  " 

He  winced.  Ten  years  ago  she  had  not  said  "Oh,  laws." 
He  looked  pityingly  at  her  thin  hair,  screwed  into  a  tight 
knob ;  at  her  bony  temples,  at  the  hollows  in  her  cheeks. 
Ten  years  ago  she  had  been  fresh,  and  energetic  and  gay. 
Smitten  suddenly,  he  laid  his  arm  about  her  hard  shoul- 

39 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

ders  and  kissed  her  tenderly.     "  Poor  girl,"  he  whis 
pered,  "my  poor  girl." 

She  cried  unresistingly  now.  Cried  until  her  nose  was 
red  and  glossy,  her  eyes  swollen.  King  was  always  so 
good  and  patient  with  her. 

' '  I  know  how  awful  everything  is, ' '  she  sobbed.  ' '  I 
always  look  like  the  Witch  of  Endor,  and  I  'm  so  old  and 
hideous,  and  the  children  running  wild,  but  I  can't  help 
it,  King.  I  seem  to  be  just  lamed,  somehow. ' ' 

He  groaned.  That  was  it,  she  was  lamed.  She  had 
many  good  qualities,  and  a  little  ordinary  comfort  would 
be  to  her  ' '  as  rain  to  a  flower  ' '  — but  that  little  ordinary 
comfort  he  could  not  give. 

Aching  with  remorse  and  anger  with  Lady  Yarrow 
for  putting  him  to  this  added  torture,  he  held  his  wife 
close  until  she  was  calmer. 

"  If  I  could,"  he  said,  "  God  knows  how  happy  I'd 
be,  Abby,  but  I  can't." 

"  Of  course  you  can't,"  she  returned,  a  little  sur 
prised,  not  knowing  of  his  repeated  refusals  of  help, 
and  drawing  his  handkerchief  from  his  pocket. 

* '  The  other  day  I  saw  the  doctor 's  new  lamp.  A  let 
down  lamp  on  chains,  King,  and  it  almost  killed  me  not 
to  be  able  to  give  you  one  like  it. ' ' 

Hardy  laughed.  ' '  You  dear  silly  little  woman ! 
What  do  I  care  about  a  let-down  lamp  on  chains?  I'd 
like  to  give  you  things.  A  man  doesn  't  need  much.  I  rd 
give  you  a  new  gown;  blue,  I  think;  blue  was  always 
your  color —  Hulloa,  Little  Baby  is  either  going  to  have 
a  convulsion,  or  wake  up!  " 

40 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

Mrs.  Hardy  went  to  the  bed  and  in  the  ensuing  noise, 
for  Baby  as  well  as  Little  Baby  awoke  too,  he  said  good 
bye  and  went  downstairs. 

Half  an  hour  later  she  heard  the  dragging  of  the  fall 
ing  gate  in  its  rut,  and  looking  out,  saw  her  husband  go 
up  the  road  towards  an  outlying  hamlet  where  he  had 
some  sick  people. 

According  to  the  two  clocks,  it  was  either  about  five 
or  about  six  when  Katie,  very  important  and  rather 
floury,  announced  to  her  mistress  that  Lady  Yarrow 
was  downstairs,  and  wanted  very  much  to  see  Mrs. 
Hardy. 

' '  Where  is  she,  Katie  ?  ' '  the  poor  woman  asked,  anx 
iously. 

"  In  the  study,  ma'am.  Luckily  I  seen  her  coming, 
and  redd  up  a  little.  The  fire  is  burning,  too." 

Mrs.  Hardy  put  on  a  shawl  and  went  down,  leaving 
Katie  in  charge  of  the  babies. 

Mary  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  with  a  good 
deal  of  color  in  her  cheeks,  her  eyes  bright.  Her  coming 
had  been  entirely  unpremeditated,  and  was  the  result  of 
her  having  seen  as  she  drove  homewards  after  a  visit,  the 
Rector  of  Carbury  headed  towards  a  distant  village. 

Mrs.  Hardy  greeted  her  with  a  timid  cordiality  tinged 
with  surprise,  and  Mary  was  about  to  sit  down  when  a 
loud  yell  from  upstairs  caused  her  hostess  to  start  up, 
her  hand  pressed  to  her  heart.  "It  is  Baby,"  Mrs. 
Hardy  murmured.  "  You  will  excuse  me  for  a  minute, 
Lady  Yarrow." 

Mary  caught  her  by  the  arm.  "  Mrs.  Hardy — I  am 
41 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

very  fond  of  children — let  me  go  up  with  you.    I — I  can 
say  what  I  have  to  say  better  upstairs  than  here. ' ' 

"  What  you  have  to  say?  I — I  must  go,  I'm  afraid 
she  has  fallen  off  the  bed. ' ' 

Mary  followed  without  waiting  for  further  permis 
sion,  and  a  minute  later  sat  in  the  rocking-chair  with 
Harold,  who  was  crying  loudly  out  of  sympathy,  on  her 
lap,  while  Mrs.  Hardy  walked  up  and  down  trying  vain 
ly  to  soothe  the  baby,  who  had  indeed  rolled  to  the  floor, 
Katie  having  turned  for  a  second  to  protest  against  the 
other  child's  swallowing  a  reel  of  cotton.  Mary's  blue 
eye  took  in  the  whole  room  at  once,  and  a  lump  came  to 
her  throat  as  she  hugged  the  heavy  child  close. 

She  thought  of  the  beautifully  arranged  nurseries  at 
Borrowdaile  used  for  less  than  a  week,  and  closed  since 
then.  She  realized  through  what  terrible  straits  Abby 
Hardy  must  have  come  to  be  able  to  live  in  a  room  like 
this.  It  wasn't  the  poverty  of  it;  it  was  the  dull,  hope 
less  untidiness,  the  lack  of  any  attempt  at  ornament  or 
even  order,  that  told  her  so  much. 

At  length  Mrs.  Hardy,  having  quieted  the  baby,  gave 
it  to  Katie,  and  sent  her  downstairs.  Then  she  came 
and  tried  to  take  the  other  child  from  Mary. 

"  It  was  very  kind  of  you,  I  am  sure,  Lady  Yarrow," 
she  said,  "  to  hold  that  heavy  boy.  I  often  wonder  why 
our  children  are  so  fat;  neither  Mr.  Hardy  nor  I  were 
ever  fat,  and  Harold  isn't  particularly  healthy " 

But  Mary  held  the  child  tight.  ' '  No,  no,  Mrs.  Hardy, 
let  me  keep  him,  please.  And — please  sit  down,  and  let 
me  say  something  to  you." 

42 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

Mrs.  Hardy  sat  down,  folding  her  crumpled 
shawl  afresh.  "I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  Mr. 
Hardy  would  say  if  he  knew  I  let  you  come  up  here. 
The  drawing-room  is  really  rather  nice,  only  it's  so 
cold." 

"  That's  just  what  he  mustn't  know,"  Mary  inter 
rupted  her  eagerly.  "  You  mustn't  tell  him.  And  you 
mustn't  tell  him  what  I'm  going  to  say  now.  Did  you 
know  that  I  saw  him  this  morning  ?  ' ' 

"  No.  He  was  not  at  home  for  luncheon,  and  I  only 
saw  him  for  a  few  minutes — when  was  it  1  ' ' 

Mary  laughed.  "  Near  the  village — and  he  was 
abominably  rude  to  me!  " 

' '  Rude !  King !  I  am  sure  you  misunderstood  him, 
Lady  Yarrow.  My  husband  is  never  rude. ' ' 

' '  But  he  was.  He  treated  me  as  no  man  has  a  right 
to  treat  one  of  his  friends,  who  is  very  proud  of  being  his 
friend." 

"  Oh,  Lady  Yarrow,  please  explain  to  me.  I  don't 
understand,  and  you  don 't  look  angry. ' '  The  poor  wom 
an 's  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  she  clasped  her  hands,  thin 
hands  that  to  Lady  Yarrow  seemed  more  pitiful  in  their 
useless  whiteness  than  would  have  been  the  most  work- 
worn  in  such  a  house. 

"  I  am  not  angry,  Mrs.  Hardy.  It  was  he  who  was 
angry,  and  this  is  why.  You  will  not  mind  my  saying 
that  I  know  you  to  be  very  poor,  and  to  be  very  poor 
when  one  has  children  must  be — terrible,  and  cruel,  and 
hideous.  Mr.  Hardy  was  angry  at  me  for  telling  him  that 
he  is  egoistic  and  wrong-headed  in  refusing  for  his  chil- 
1  43 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

dren  the  help  my  husband  has  for  years  been  longing  to 
give  him. ' ' 

"  Help?    How  do  you  mean?  " 

"  I  mean  money,"  Mary  went  on  boldly.  "  Money 
is  the  only  thing  that  can  help  you.  Just  think  how  un 
reasonable  and  unjust  he  is.  If  he  were  my  husband's 
brother,  or — even  a  distant  cousin,  and  his  heir,  he  would 
not  hesitate  to  let  Borrow  help  him.  Don't  you  see?  " 

"  Lady  Yarrow,"  Mrs.  Hardy  said,  with  a  certain 
dignity,  ' '  we  can  not  borrow  money,  for  we  could  never 
pay  it  back.  As  our  children  grow  older,  we  of  course 
grow  poorer,  and  God  knows  how  it  will  end;  but  we 
could  never  pay  back  a  penny  if  we  borrowed  it." 

Mary  rose.  ' '  I  must  go,  dear  Mrs.  Hardy,  for  I  am 
deathly  afraid  of  Mr.  Hardy.  You  are  a  woman  of  sense, 
and  you  are  a  mother.  Believe  me,  if  my  little  boy  had 
lived,  and  we  had  been  poor,  I  should  not  have  hesitated 
one  second.  I  should  not  have  let  my  husband's  oldest 
friend  lend  me  money ;  I  should  have  been  generous  to 
him,  and  to  my  child,  and  taken  the  money  as  a  gift. ' ' 

She  took  a  tight  roll  of  paper  from  her  pocket,  and 
opening  Abby  Hardy's  hand  closed  the  fingers  over  it. 
' '  That  is  not  money, ' '  she  went  on  hurriedly,  ' '  it  is — it 
is  little  frocks  and  little  shoes " 

"  It  is  bread  and  meat,  Mary  Yarrow — it  is  bread 
and  meat,"  cried  the  older  woman,  sinking  into  a  chair 
and  sobbing  helplessly.  "  You  don't  know  what  it  has 
been.  You  can't  know,  and  I've  no  spirit  left;  I  can  not 
refuse  to  take  it.  King  would  kill  me,  but  I  can't  help 
it." 

44 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

Mary  took  her  in  her  arms  and  kissed  her.  ' '  I  can 't 
say  how  generous  you  are,  and  how  I  thank  you,"  she 
said.  "  Only  women  can  do  such  things.  Now  I  must 
go,  and — be  careful,  Mrs.  Hardy,  and  don't  let  him 
notice.  Don't  tell  him  I  was  here." 

Without  waiting  for  an  answer  she  ran  downstairs 
and  into  the  evening,  her  cheeks  flushed  with  triumph. 
She  was  heartily  glad  to  have  been  able  to  help  the  poor 
woman  whose  heart  certainly  was  slowly  breaking,  and 
there  was  another  sentiment  mixed  with  this  one — de 
light  at  having  at  last  got  the  better  of  King  Hardy's 
obstinacy. 

She  met  him  in  the  village,  and  rather  to  her  alarm, 
he  stopped  her.  "  I  beg  your  pardon,  Lady  Yarrow," 
he  said,  with  his  curious,  stiff  humility,  "  for  having 
been  so  rude  to  you  and  Mr.  Dudley  this  morning.  I  am 
also  sure  that  you  both — meant  well." 

"  I  forgive  you  very  willingly,  Mr.  Hardy,"  she  an 
swered,  holding  out  her  hand, ' '  though  you  were  entirely 
in  the  wrong.  May  I  ask  whether  you  did  throw  my 
uncle  over  the  cliff?  I  couldn't  find  him  when  I  went 
back,  and  have  not  seen  him  since. ' ' 

Hardy  laughed.  "  No,  I — only  sent  him  home  the 
other  way ;  I  was  bound  to  have  it  out  with  you.  And 

now " 

'  Now,"  she  interrupted,  "  I  suppose  that  you  have 
had  the  satisfaction  of  snubbing  me  so  thoroughly,  you 
are  feeling  much  set  up  and  inclined  to  say  '  nunc  dimit- 
tus.'  '  Later  she  told  her  husband  that  she  had  been 
mentally  running  her  tongue  out  at  him  all  the  while. 

45 


CHAPTER   VI 

THE  southern  room  at  the  end  of  the  hall  at  Liscom 
House  had  been  chosen  by  Madame  Perez  for  her  boudoir, 
because  of  a  great  square  window  that  let  in  the  sun,  and 
a  small  conservatory  at  the  opposite  end  that  she  had 
filled  with  plants  and  flowers,  and  the  door  of  which  was 
always  open,  filling  the  room  with  the  smell  of  damp 
earth  and  green  things. 

When  King  Hardy  was  shown  into  this  room,  one 
morning  about  a  week  after  Lady  Yarrow's  visit  to  his 
wife,  he  paused  for  a  minute  on  the  threshold,  literally 
taken  aback  by  the  blaze  of  color  that  met  his  eyes. 

The  walls  were  covered  with  red  silk,  the  low  chairs 
were  filled  with  cushions  of  the  same  color,  and  on  the  oak 
floor  was  spread  a  magnificent  old  Turkey  carpet  in 
which,  though  red  was  again  the  predominant  note,  all 
the  old  bright  colors  were  blended  into  a  feast  of  luxu 
riant  brilliance,  softened  by  time  into  the  perfection  of 
harmony. 

Hardy  stood  staring  at  this  masterpiece  of  an  art  of 
which  he  had  formerly  been  a  not  wholly  ignorant  devo 
tee,  until  a  low  laugh  from  Madame  Perez,  whom  he  had 
not  seen,  aroused  him,  and  he  went  quickly  forward, 
holding  out  his  hand.  ' '  What  a  paradise  you  have  made 

46 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

of  this  old  room, ' '  he  said, ' '  and  where  did  you  find  that 
rug?  " 

She  laughed  again,  this  time  at  his  abruptness. 
"  I  got  it  years  ago  in  the  East.  It  is  a  good  one, 
isn't  it?  " 

' '  It  is  a  treasure. ' '  He  sat  down  by  the  big  fire-place 
in  which  great  logs  smouldered,  and  drew  a  deep  breath. 
' '  Red  is  the  most  beautiful  color  in  the  world, ' '  he  went 
on,  looking  around.  ' '  Sometimes  I  am  really  hungry  for 
it.  And  this  is  just  the  right  shade.  I  have  often  won 
dered  why  so  few  rooms  are  hung  with  it. ' ' 

Madame  Perez  smiled.  She  could  not  tell  him  that 
most  women  would  look  like  ghosts  surrounded  by  the 
splendid  color,  and  his  unexpected  enthusiasm  surprised 
and  amused  her.  He  was  the  last  man  in  the  world  whom 
she  would  have  suspected  of  a  love  of  color. 

The  very  water-colors  in  the  narrow  gold  or  ivory 
frames  were  full  of  that  to-day  rather  neglected  charm ; 
not  a  gray  sea,  but  a  bit  of  blue  water  dazzling  in  its 
brilliance;  not  a  dull  cloudy  sky  was  there,  but  a  sunrise 
and  a  dawn  vied  with  each  other  in  the  splendor  of  their 
purple  and  gold,  their  rose  and  silver. 

A  curious  note  introduced  into  the  scheme  of  the 
room  was  a  life-size  copy  of  the  Venus  de  Milo,  who  stood, 
cold  and  white,  yet  living  vividly,  in  one  corner,  outlined 
against  a  square  of  Turkish  embroidery.  Hardy's  keen 
gray  eyes  traveled  quickly  from  wall  to  wall,  from  pic 
ture  to  picture,  and  then  back  to  the  rug,  which  was  the 
best  of  all  for  him,  not  excepting,  she  noticed  quite  un- 
resentfully,  the  beautiful  woman  in  the  white  woolen 

47 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

gown  who  sat  opposite  him,  bending  over  a  tapestry 
frame. 

At  length  Hardy  spoke.  "  You  must  think  me  quite 
mad,  Madame  Perez,  but  as  I  said,  red  is  an  old  passion 
of  mine,  and  when  I  was  a  boy  I  lived  with  an  uncle  who 
had  one  of  the  first  collections  of  Turkey  carpets  in  Eng 
land,  so — all  this  is  a  delight  to  me. ' ' 

' '  I  am  very  glad.  There  is  so  little  out-of-door  color 
in  this  country  that  a  poor  barbarian  like  me  must  make 
herself  a  nest  where  the  primitive  passion  for  it  can  be 
satisfied." 

"  All  passions  are  primitive,"  he  returned.  "  Civili 
zation  has  had  no  power  over  them,  any  more  than  it  has 
had  over  the  features  of  man.  Two  eyes,  a  nose  and  a 
mouth  we  had  in  the  beginning,  and  two  eyes,  a  nose  and 
a  mouth  we  have  now.  It  is  the  same  with  Love,  Hate, 
Revenge  and  the  rest  of  them — they  are  all  there,  as  they 
were  in  Cain's  day." 

She  paused  in  her  work,  a  needle  threaded  with  gold 
poised  in  the  air.  "  You  think  that?  " 

' '  Yes ;  why  not  ?  I  don 't  think  it,  I  know  it.  So  do 
you  know  it.  So  does  every  one  who  is  honest  with  him 
self." 

'  Time  has,  according  to  your  Darwin,  done  away 
with  tails, ' '  she  protested,  to  lead  him  on. 

' '  Because  tails  were  not  essential  to  life — taking  for 
granted  the  correctness  of  Darwin's  theory,  in  which  I 
don't  believe " 

She  laughed.  "  Is  a  nose  essential  to  human  life?  I 
doubt  it ;  yet  we  still  have  noses. ' ' 

48 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

"  Anger  is  not  essential,  nor  jealousy — but  they  are 
part  of  a  whole,  and  as  I  started  out  by  saying,  as  prim 
itive." 

"  We  of  the  South  are  more  primitive  than  you 
Northerners.  How  do  you  account  for  that  ?  ' '  she  went 
on. 

Hardy  sat  for  some  time  staring  at  the  rug,  his  head 
on  one  hand. 

"  As  a  rule  you  are  less  well  educated,"  he  returned, 
after  a  rather  long  pause.  ' '  Your  primitive  passions  are 
less  crowded  than  ours  by  cultivated  tasks,  fads,  and  so 
on.  Southern  women  are  often  like  children " 

"  Have  you  been  in  Southern  countries,  then?  " 

He  sat  up  in  his  chair  with  a  jerk.  ' '  Yes,  long  ago, 
when  I  was  young.  Madame  Perez,  I  hope  you  have  not 
forgotten  your  promise  to  help  my  poor  people?  " 

"  No.    I  have  not  forgotten." 

' '  I  came  this  afternoon  to  beg  you  to  give  me  some 
money  for  a  poor  family  whose  father  has  just  died. 
There  are  eight  children ;  the  mother  is  ill,  and  they  are 
in  a  very  bad  way. ' ' 

She  rose  and  going  to  a  little  table,  opened  the  drawer 
and  came  back,  dragging  her  draperies  like  a  lazy  god 
dess,  a  purse  in  her  hand.  ' '  How  much  shall  I  give  you, 
Mr.  Hardy?  " 

"  A  five-pound  note  would  mean  everything  to  me — 
but  I  ought  to  tell  you  that  the  family  is  not  what  we  call 
a  deserving  one.  The  mother  is  ill,  but  she  also  drinks, 
and  the  children  are  no  better  than  they  should  be." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mind  that  at  all,  you  know,"  she  an- 
49 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

swered,  giving  him  the  money.  ' '  I  am  so  full  myself  of 
more  or  less  wonderful  capacity  for  evil,  that  I  have  a 
sympathy  for  the  wicked.  I  am  sure  I  should  steal  and 
swear  and  go  to  the  dogs  if  I  were  poor  and  hungry.  One 
says  go  to  the  dogs  ?  ' ' 

The  sudden  little  air  of  appeal  was  attractive,  and  he 
laughed  as  he  thanked  her  for  the  money. 

' '  You  are  very  humble  minded.  I  do  not  believe  you 
could  ever  be  so  very  wicked. ' ' 

' '  But  yes !  The  tax  on  wickedness  might  be  progres 
sive,  like  the  income  tax.  Poor  people  should  be  allowed 
to  steal  a  little,  and  lie,  more  than  we  who  are  rich. ' ' 

"  That  is  a  very  original  idea,"  he  answered,  sitting 
down  again,  though  he  had  meant  to  go.  "  If  carried 
out,  it  would  produce  a  revolution  in  society. ' ' 

' '  Yes.  For  instance,  the  man  who  is  a  gentleman  and 
politely  unkind  to  his  wife,  should  be  more  punished 
than  the  peasant  who  jumps  on  his,  with  his  boots  on. ' ' 

' '  But  the  lady  never  tells — at  least  she  never  has  her 
husband  up  before  the  Bench — it  would  be  hard  to 
prove. ' ' 

' '  Ha !  ha !  One  knows.  But  in  more  extreme  cases 
my  plan  would  be  practicable.  The  duke  who  is  untrue 
to  his  wife  in  the  polite  civilized  way,  should  be  fined 
half  his  fortune,  whereas  the  bricklayer  who  runs  away 
and  leaves  his  wife  ought  to  be  fined,  say,  a  tenth  of  his 
wages. ' ' 

Hardy,  of  course,  saw  her  weak  point,  and  pounced 
on  it,  and  suddenly,  finding  themselves  so  seriously  dis 
cussing  the  problematical  justice  of  a  problematical  law, 

50 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

they  burst  out  laughing,  and  he  took  his  leave,  thanking 
her  again  for  her  aid,  and  accepting  with  pleasure  her  in 
vitation  to  come  and  see  her  again  soon.  The  rest  of  the 
afternoon  he  passed  in  the  village  making  visits  and  buy 
ing  a  few  necessities  of  life  for  the  poor  family  whose 
shortcomings  had  had  so  little  effect  with  the  generos 
ity  of  the  strange  woman  at  Liscom  House.  Hardy  was 
very  happy  that  afternoon.  He  was  bringing  help  to 
children,  he  had  been  amused,  Madame  Perez  no  longer 
threw  him  into  the  depths  of  memory,  and  the  recollec 
tion  of  the  charming  room  and  the  beautiful  rug  gave 
him  a  growing  sense  of  delight. 

Half  unconsciously  he  put  off  the  moment  of  his  re 
turn  home,  but  at  length  it  came,  and  as  he  went  up  the 
garden  path  he  stood  still  for  a  minute,  and  looking  up 
at  the  sky,  in  which  a  few  cold  stars  already  shone,  he 
gathered  up  his  strength  to  fight  against  the  reaction  he 
knew  must  come. 

The  modern  curse  of  introspection  was  his,  with  all  its 
danger  and  horror.  In  the  long  years  that  he  had  lived 
in  his  poverty,  he  had  learned  to  scan  his  every  thought, 
his  every  act,  not  with  the  sympathetic  eyes  of  one  who 
can  forgive  himself  much,  but  with  a  cold  sense  of  justice 
that  crucified  him  over  and  over. 

Physically,  he  had  himself  under  an  almost  perfect 
control ;  he  could  and  did  go  without  sleep,  without  food, 
without  proper  clothing,  either  to  help  some  one  else,  or 
to  punish  himself,  time  and  time  again. 

But  the  involuntary  side  of  his  mind  was  stronger 
than  the  voluntary;  he  had  never  gained  an  enduring 

51 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

mastery  over  his  moods ;  at  times  a  great  wave  of  disgust 
at  himself,  his  life,  his  surroundings  bore  down  on  him 
and  overwhelmed  him  completely  for  the  time.  He  was 
in  no  way  a  sensuous  man,  and  believed  that  he  could 
have  been  content  with  little,  but  the  lack  of  that  little 
threatened  to  overpower  him,  and  he  knew  it. 

Standing  there  under  the  stars  he  realized  that  his 
unusual  happiness  and  contentment  of  that  afternoon 
was  bound  to  be  followed  by  a  fall  into  the  depths  of 
emotional  torment.  He  prayed  for  help,  and  knowing 
that  the  prayer  would  not  be  fulfilled  in  any  human  way, 
went  slowly  into  the  house. 

The  first  thing  that  met  his  eyes  on  entering  was  Mac- 
Dougall,  sitting  on  the  lowest  step  of  the  stairs,  a  sugar- 
bowl  in  his  lap,  a  pleasant  smile  on  his  blotched  face. 
"  Good!  "  the  child  said.  He  was  the  least  attractive  of 
all  the  children,  and  now,  in  his  soiled  apron  and  frowsy 
hair,  looked  more  than  ever  uninteresting. 

"  Give  me  the  sugar-bowl,  dear;  you  will  be  ill," 
Hardy  said,  gently.  "  Where  is  mamma?  " 

"Bed.    Mamma  ill." 

As  Hardy  started  upstairs,  Katie  came  rushing  down 
carrying  Harold,  tightly  rolled  in  a  shawl,  a  woolen 
scarf  about  her  own  face,  which  was  red  with  tears. 
' '  Oh,  Mr.  Hardy, ' '  she  said,  ' '  she 's  very  bad  this  time, 
and  the  doctor  was  here,  and  Miss  Tench  took  all  the 
children  home  for  the  night.  She  carried  little  Baby,  so 
I'm  taking  Harold  now." 

Hardy  sighed.  He  was  not  alarmed ;  he  was  used  to 
these  occasions  and  to  the  kindly  interposition  of  Maria 

52 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

Tench,  who  always  sent  the  children  back  ill  from  over 
eating. 

11  Perhaps  I'd  better  carry  Harold  down  to  Miss 
Tench 's, ' '  he  suggested.  ' '  Mrs.  Hardy  might  need  you. 
And  I'll  take  MacDougall,  too." 

"  Oh,  no,  Mr.  Hardy,"  the  girl  returned,  giving  the 
baby  into  his  arms  and  unwinding  her  scarf,  thereby  dis 
playing  a  much  swollen  and  glossy  cheek,  "  MacDougall 
has  a  bad  throat,  and  the  doctor  said  as  he  wasn  't  to  go 
out.  'E'll  be  a  good  boy,  won't  you,  dear?  " 

Hardy  sighed  again  as  he  went  down  the  garden 
path.  MacDougall,  then,  would  fall  to  his  share.  When 
he  had  given  Harold  to  good  Miss  Tench,  and  said  good 
night  to  the  children,  who  were  enjoying  themselves  as 
noisily  as  was  usual  on  such  occasions,  to  them  the  most 
festive  of  the  year,  he  hurried  home,  and  went  up  to  see 
his  wife,  whom  he  found  in  a  most  exceptional  state  of 
irritation.  She  had  been  in  bed  with  neuralgia  for  the 
three  days  following  Lady  Yarrow's  visit,  and  had  that 
afternoon  planned  to  go  to  the  village  the  next  day  and 
buy  some  new  flannel,  two  small  pairs  of  shoes  and  one 
or  two  other  inconspicuous  luxuries  before  her  illness. 
And  now  the  poor  woman  lay  in  bed,  the  flannel  was  un- 
bought,  and  in  a  little  card-case  in  a  drawer  near  at  hand 
lay  the  money,  as  useless  to  her  for  weeks  as  though  it 
had  been  in  China ! 

After  vainly  trying  to  soothe  her,  Hardy  went  down 
stairs.  On  his  writing  table  lay  a  letter  with  the  printed 
address  of  the  publisher  to  whom  he  had  sent  his  book. 
It  was  a  letter,  not  the  usual  bulky  package !  He  took  it 

53 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

up,  turning  it  over  and  over  with  hands  that  shook.  It 
meant  so  much  to  him.  Then  suddenly  he  slipped  to  his 
knees  and  prayed  aloud,  fiercely,  passionately:  "  Oh, 
God,  you  know,  you  know.  You  have  seen.  Let  it  be 
that  they  have  accepted  it.  Let  it  be.  My  children  are 
growing  up  to  be  savages.  I  am  growing  hard  and  bad. 
So  little  would  help  us.  You  know.  In  His  name  who 
died  out  of  His  pity  for  us,  pity  me  now,  and  let  it  be. ' ' 

Without  rising,  he  reached  for  the  letter  and  opened 
it — "  And  therefore  beg  to  return  the  MS.  with  thanks." 
Hardy  rose  with  a  rough  laugh.  The  package  was  there, 
too,  just  outside  the  circle  of  lamplight.  He  tore  it  open, 
looked  at  the  carefully  written  pages  on  which  he  had 
spent  so  much  time,  and  in  which  he  had  just  noAV  had 
such  hope,  and,  crushing  them  down  into  the  embers  in 
the  fire-place  he  watched  them  flare  up  and  burn. 


54 


CHAPTER   VII 

AN  hour  later,  his  hat  jammed  tight  down  on  his  brow, 
his  coat-collar  turned  up,  Hardy  stood  at  the  top  of  the 
steep  flight  of  wooden  steps  that  led  down  to  Cliff,  to  the 
little  watering-place,  Sabley-on-Sea,  in  his  parish.  The 
wind  had  come  up  and  blew  strongly  against  him  with 
an  occasional  scurry  of  dry  snow,  but  he  did  not  notice  it, 
although  he  had  no  overcoat  on.  He  hardly  knew  how  he 
came  to  be  where  he  was ;  he  had  been  walking  aimlessly 
over  the  downs  until  he  was  tired,  but  he  had  no  recollec 
tion  of  leaving  the  house,  nor  of  a  determination  to  come 
to  Sabley.  After  standing  for  some  time  gazing  through 
the  darkness  at  the  lights  of  the  little  town  below  him, 
he  went  slowly  down  the  steps,  clinging  close  to  the  rail 
ing  as  the  wind  shook  the  frail  structure  until  it  quiv 
ered.  He  had  eaten  nothing  since  luncheon,  and  it  was 
now  about  seven  o'clock.  He  was  hungry,  and,  worn  out 
with  the  agony  of  his  torturing  thoughts,  limp  and  weak. 
But  as  he  reached  the  sandy  path  at  the  foot  of  the  steps 
he  drew  a  deep  breath  of  relief,  for  his  mind,  worn  out, 
was  in  a  pleasant,  lazy,  blank  condition,  free  from  active 
pain,  and  content. 

Sabley,  a  town  of  10,000  inhabitants,  was  still  awake, 
55 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

and  as  it  was  Saturday  night  the  shops  were  open.  Hardy 
went  slowly  down  the  little  street,  pausing  from  time  to 
time  to  look  in  the  lighted  shop-windows,  with  no  partic 
ular  destination  in  view. 

In  a  short  time  he  would  have  to  turn  back  towards  the 
dark  downs  where  the  wind,  he  now  remembered,  blew  so 
hard,  but  in  the  meantime  the  street  was  comparatively 
sheltered,  and  the  shops  pleasant  to  see.  Sabley  as  a 
whole  was  given  over  to  Dissent,  but  its  few  Church  of 
England  members  were  parishioners  of  Hardy's,  though 
the  summer  visitors  went  to  a  smart  new  church  about  a 
mile  the  other  side  of  the  town.  As  the  weary  man 
leaned  against  the  railing  before  a  very  large  and  at 
tractive  shop-window  towards  the  end  of  the  street,  it  oc 
curred  to  him  that  the  shop  belonged  to  one  of  his  parish 
ioners,  and  he  went  in. 

"  Harper,"  he  said,  as  the  man  hurried  forward  to 
meet  him.  "  Don't  you  think  you'd  better  take  down 
that  advertisement  of  Leroy  's  ?  It 's  a  very  indecent  pic 
ture,  and  you  're  a  church  warden,  you  know. ' ' 

Harper  rubbed  his  chin  respectfully,  as  though  it  had 
been  his  Hector's.  "  The  girl  on  a  bicycle,  you  mean,  sir? 
Well,  I  don't  know,  Mr.  'Ardy.  It  is  a  bit  loud,  but  it's 
this  way,  sir.  The  public  likes  its  things  loud  nowadays ; 
their  game,  their  noospapers  an'  their  pictures.  Leroy 's 
champagne  ain't  much  good,  between  you  an'  me,  sir,  an' 
the  picture  ain't  much  good  neither,  but  they  goes. 
That's  it,  Mr.  'Ardy,  they  goes." 

' '  Well,  well,  I  can 't  force  you,  Harper,  but  I  'm  sorry 
you  look  at  it  in  that  way.  What 's  bad  is  bad,  there 's  no 

56 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

getting  around  that,  and  you  are  in  a  responsible  posi 
tion  ;  you  have  an  influence 

Harper  was  fond  of  his  Rector,  and  valued  his  good 
opinion.  "  Seeing  as  you  looks  at  it  that  way,  Mr. 
'Ardy,"  he  hastened  to  say,  "  I'll  take  it  down,  and — 
you  look  played  out,  sir,  won't  you  take  a  glass  of  Mar 
sala  with  me?  I  'ear  as  'ow  Mrs.  'Ardy,  poor  lady— 
The  Rector  held  out  his  hand. 

"  Thanks,  no  Marsala,  Harper.  Yes,  Mrs.  Hardy  is 
ill.  I — I  must  be  getting  back  to  her. ' ' 

"  Nothing  I  can  do  for  you,  sir?  No  coffee  nor 
chawc'late?  I've  got  Soochard's  now,  the  very  latest,  I 
assure  you.  Sabley  knows  what 's  what !  ' '  Hardy  ex 
plained  that  they  always  drank  tea,  and  were  supplied 
for  the  present,  and  escaped  from  the  man 's  well-meant 
importunities  into  the  cold  air  which  was  now  filled  with 
small  thick  flakes  of  whirling  snow. 

Some  of  the  shops  were  being  closed,  and  at  the  door 
of  one  of  them  he  was  stopped  by  the  owner,  wrho  was  in 
the  act  of  putting  up  the  shutters. 

"  Ah.  Good  evening,  Mr.  'Ardy.  A  cold  evening, 
sir." 

"  Good  evening,  Glegg." 

The  little  book-shop  was  a  never-ceasing  temptation 
to  the  book-hungry  man,  and  now,  as  he  stood  in  the  snow, 
looking  into  the  lighted,  book-lined  room,  he  was  as  much 
to  be  pitied,  if  not  more,  than  the  conventional  tramp  be 
fore  the  cook-shop. 

"  I've  a  lot  of  new  books  just  down,  sir,"  Glegg  went 
on,  setting  the  shutter  on  the  ground  and  making  way 

57 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

for  the  clergyman  to  pass  in.  "  An'  I  take  all  the  best 
magazines  now,  too.  Perhaps  Mrs.  'Ardy  might  like  the 
Queen  or  the  Lady's  Pictorial?  " 

"  I'll  take  a  Queen  for  her,  Glegg;  it  may  amuse 
her." 

"  All  them  books  there  is  new,  sir,"  the  bookseller 
went  on,  rolling  up  the  magazine.  "  And  all  but  one  is 
novels !  It 's  wonderful  how  novels  does  sell,  nowadays. 
That  one  on  top,  the  red  one,  is  the  book  of  the  day,  Mr. 
'Ardy.  'The  Heart  of  Philada.'  I've  not  read  it  my 
self,  but  it's  in  the  third  edition  and  the  papers  is  full 
of  it." 

Hardy  opened  the  book  carelessly;  anything  to  keep 
his  eyes  from  the  sober  volumes  behind  him.  "  Bah!  " 
he  exclaimed,  suddenly,  throwing  the  book  down, 
"filthy  stuff!  " 

"  Yes,  it  is  pretty  bad,  Mr.  'Ardy,  what  I've  seen, 
but — that's  what  sells  nowadays.  The  worse  the  book 
the  greater  the  sale. ' ' 

"  It  is  outrageous, ' '  Hardy  answered,  paying  for  his 
magazine  and  taking  it.  ' '  It  is  horrible. ' ' 

"  'Orrible  it  is,  Mr.  'Ardy — but  that's  wot  the  pub 
lic  wants  nowadays.  One  sees  it  everywhere,  and  the 
more  it  gets — the  more  it  wants!  Why,  some  of  them 
novels,  written  by  women,  too,  most  of  'em,  I  wouldn't 
offer  'em  to  you,  Mr.  'Ardy !  Good  evening,  Mr.  'Ardy 
— thank  you. ' ' 

Hardy  fought  his  way  back  through  the  darkness  and 
the  storm,  glad  of  the  darkness,  and  was  met  at  the  house 
door  by  Tench,  just  going  home.  "  Another  girl, 

5S 


HE    AND    HECUBA 

Hardy,"  the  little  doctor  said,  shaking  hands  with  him, 
and  omitting  the  conventional  congratulation.  "  Good 
God,  man,  where  have  you  been?  You  look  worse  than 
your  wife !  ' ' 

Hardy  laughed.  "  I  forgot  my  dinner  and  have  been 
tramping  about.  I  was  in  Sabley — it  is  cold — 

Tench  pulled  him  in  the  house  and  looked  at  him 
sharply.  "  You  take  a  glass  of  hot  whisky  and  water 
when  you've  eaten,  and  go  to  bed.  I  don't  like  your 
looks,  Hardy,  and  I  don 't  want  you  to  go  to  pieces. ' ' 

"  I  shan't  go  to  pieces.  I'm  all  right.  Thanks, 
Tench.  Goodnight." 

Hardy  took  off  his  coat  and  boots,  put  on  his  dressing- 
gown  and,  after  drinking  a  glass  of  milk,  went  upstairs. 

His  wife  was  asleep,  and  the  new  baby  lay  beside  her. 
He  stood  by  them  for  a  few  minutes.  Abby  looked  ill, 
she  was  ill,  there  was  another  baby — his  book  was  burnt 
— all  these  things  were,  and  he  did  not  care  particularly. 
As  he  turned  softly  to  go  downstairs,  the  nurse  came  in. 

"  I'm  glad  you've  come,  sir,  she  took  on  awful.  / 
never  see  her  so  upset,  poor  dear.  She  kept  talking  about 
when  Algy  was  born,  and — the  flannel  skirts  she  made 
him.  It  was  a  pity  to  hear. ' ' 

Hardy  started.  He  remembered  the  flannel  skirts 
and  all  the  other  little  preparations ;  he  remembered  her 
joy,  and  his ;  their  plans,  their  hopes.  His  eyes  filled  with 
tears,  and  he  was  about  to  go  downstairs  when  she  awoke, 
and  seeing  him,  began  to  sob  feebly.  "  Did  you  see  her, 
King  ?  Poor  little  tiling !  It  is  so  awful  that  she  isn  't 
welcome.  Do  you  remember  when  Algy  was  born?  It 
5  59 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

was  so  different.    Oh,  King,  I  am  so  tired  of  it  all,  and  I 
am  so  wicked. ' ' 

Filled  with  remorse  and  pity  he  knelt  by  her  and 
tried  to  comfort  her.  "  We'll  name  her — shall  we? — 
Theodora  ?  You  know  what  it  means  1  And  we  will  love 
her  dearly.  I  think  she  will  be  very  pretty,  Abby,  and 
have  your  pretty  hair.  My  poor  girl,  don't  cry " 

Gradually  she  became  quiet  and  at  length  sent  him  to 
her  drawer  to  fetch  her  a  handkerchief.  As  he  closed 
the  drawer,  something  fell  from  the  handkerchief  to  the 
floor,  and  after  wiping  his  wife's  eyes  and  kissing  her, 
Hardy  picked  up  a  little  card-case  and,  to  avoid 
the  slight  noise  of  reopening  the  drawer,  carried  it 
downstairs  with  him.  He  closed  the  house,  banked  up 
the  kitchen  fire  to  save  the  worn-out  and  sleepy  Katie, 
tucked  MacDougall  into  his  crib,  and  went  back  to  his 
study.  His  fire  was  out,  and  as  he  rebuilt  it,  the  crisp 
black  sheets  that  had  been  the  book  he  loved,  caught  his 
eyes. 

"  It  was  no  use.  Such  books  don't  sell,  as  Glegg 
said,"  he  thought,  wearily.  "  It  was  well  written  and 
full  of  hard  study,  but  they  don't  sell." 

When  the  fire  was  burning  brightly,  he  rose  from  his 
knees  and  went  to  his  writing-table.  He  had  no  sermon 
for  the  next  da}r,  as  he  had  meant  to  write  it  that  even 
ing.  The  subject  was  thought  out,  he  knew  all  that  he 
wished  to  tell  his  people,  and  had  only  to  write  it  down. 

He  looked  at  his  watch ;  it  was  not  yet  eleven,  and  he 
could  not  sleep.  The  big  sheet  before  him,  Hardy  took 
up  his  pen,  the  same  with  which  he  had  written  the  book, 

60 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

and  wrote  in  his  small,  neat  hand  the  text  he  had  chosen. 
"  In  my  Father's  house  are  many  mansions."  He  was 
very  fond  of  the  idea  of  the  divine  Fatherhood ;  the  ten 
derness  of  it  appealed  to  him  as  something  of  particular 
importance  to  his  poor  little  congregation,  and  it  often 
entered  into  his  simple  sermons.  To-night,  touched  by 
the  scene  with  his  wife,  and  by  the  sight  of  the 
helpless  little  child  upstairs,  he  wrote  a  few  phrases  full 
of  warmth  and  truth  that  brought  comfort  to  himself. 
He  wrote  easily,  in  pure  English,  free  of  long  words,  and 
his  conscientious  wish  to  avoid  phrases  that  his  people 
could  not  grasp,  together  with  his  scholarly  purism  of 
thought,  had  given  him  a  style  that  he  knew  was  good. 
At  the  end  of  the  first  page  he  paused  and  re-read  what 
he  had  written. 

"  It  is  good,"  he  said  aloud.  "  I  can  write,  what 
ever  the  publishers  may  choose  to  do!  "  He  turned  the 
page,  took  up  his  pen  and  wrote:  "  This  thought  of 
God's  being  our  Father — 

Suddenly  his  left  hand  fell  on  the  old  card-case  he 
had  thrown  down  on  the  table,  and  still  thinking  of  his 
sermon,  he  opened  the  little  book,  in  which,  long  ago, 
Abby  had  kept  her  cards.  A  second  later  the  white  paper 
lay  before  him  unfolded.  It  was  a  hundred-pound  note. 

Sweat  stood  on  his  forehead,  his  hands  shook,  and 
then  his  quick  mind  had  found  the  truth.  Lady  Yar 
row's  meeting  him  in  the  village;  her  contented  smile; 
Abby's  happy  face  that  evening.  He  knew.  He  knew, 
and  it  must  be  hours  before  he  could  confront  Lady  Yar 
row  ;  days  before  he  could  tell  his  wife  of  his  discovery. 

Gl 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

A  night  to  be  lived  through  before  he  could  speak  to 
any  one,  during  which  he  must  suffer  alone.  For  the  first 
time  in  his  life  he  was  angry  with  his  wife;  he  hated 
her  for  humiliating  him.  For  an  hour  he  sat  there,  star 
ing  at  the  bank  note,  his  face  gray  and  set.  It  was  horri 
ble,  but  worse  was  to  come.  For  the  time  came,  towards 
morning,  when,  in  the  ghostly  light  from  the  window  he 
had  thrown  open,  there  came  to  him  the  realization  of 
what  the  hundred  pounds  must  have  meant  to  his  wife 
before  she  could  consent  to  take  money  from  Mary  Yar 
row.  He  felt  the  sting  of  their  poverty  as  it  must  seem  to 
the  poor  mother;  he  felt  the  ache  in  her  heart  at  seeing 
her  children  hungry  and  half  ragged.  She  had  suffered 
beyond  her  strength,  and  tempted,  had  fallen. 

The  man  groaned  aloud  in  his  misery.  Could  he  put 
the  card-case  with  its  secret  back  in  its  hiding  place  and 
— ignore  his  discovery?  Could  he  accept  the  ignominy 
of  charity  for  his  wife's  sake?  There  was  no  moral 
wrong  in  living  on  alms.  Could  he  do  it?  He  had  no 
way  of  making  good  the  loss  to  his  wife  and  his  children. 
His  book  was  a  failure  and  he  had  destroyed  it — suppose 
he  had  no  right  to  deprive  them  of  this  honestly  come  by, 
humiliating  aid 

The  momentary  temptation  took  the  strength  out  of 
him,  and  for  a  minute  he  cowered  to  the  window- 
frame,  half  falling.  Then,  suddenly,  with  a  little  hoarse 
cry  he  stumbled  to  his  writing-table,  took  a  fresh  sheet  of 
sermon  paper  and  wrote  at  the  top  of  it  in  carefully  fan 
tastic  letters:  "  He  and  Hecuba." 


G2 


CHAPTER   VIII 

THE  title  had  come  into  his  head  quite  by  chance,  but 
the  story  grew  under  his  hand  with  an  amazing  ease  and 
rapidity.  He  wrote  on,  covering  page  after  page  of 
foolscap  with  his  neat  writing,  pausing  only  to  take  a 
fresh  sheet,  or  to  lay  the  completed  one  out  of  danger  of 
smudging. 

Day  came  slowly,  creeping  at  the  pale  windows, 
fighting  its  slow  fight  with  the  lamplight,  bringing  a  new 
chill  to  the  air.  The  fire  went  out,  the  lamp  went  out; 
behind  the  thick,  gray  clouds  over  the  sea  a  pale  yellow 
glow,  as  cold  as  the  clouds  themselves,  became  visible,  the 
distorted  apple-trees  in  the  thriftless  garden  drawn 
black  as  the  vanquished  night,  against  it. 

The  nurse  came  soft-footed  down  the  stairs  and  went 
into  the  kitchen ;  Hardy  heard  the  noise  of  pouring  coal, 
the  slam  of  a  distant  door,  without  realizing  it;  the 
broad  table  was  sown  thick  with  paper,  the  floor  near 
him  as  well. 

On  and  on  he  wrote,  his  brows,  drawn  deep  over  his 
eyes,  half  hiding  their  steady  light  as  he  worked.  For 
years  the  man  had  read  no  new  novels,  and  very  few  old 
ones ;  he  had  no  theories  as  to  novel  writing,  or  as  to  the 
style  in  which  they  should  be  written.  He  made  no  plan 

63 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

for  his  book,  blocked  out  no  chapters ;  did  not  know  even 
the  names  of  his  characters  until,  when  he  needed  them, 
then  they  were  ready  named,  as  clear  to  him  as  if  they 
were  printed  under  his  eye. 

He  was,  he  felt,  subconsciously,  not  only  writing  a 
novel  to  gain  money;  he  was  laying  a  ghost,  killing  the 
living  torment  of  years.  For  he  was  writing  his  own 
story.  It  was  the  story  of  his  own  youth,  when,  sinning, 
he  had  been  happy  as  he  had  never  been  since  in  his  life- 
struggle  for  goodness ;  it  was  the  story  of  that  year  in 
his  life  which,  in  his  real  purity  and  goodness,  seemed 
to  him  the  most  horrible  and  unforgivable  in  the  world ; 
it  was  the  outcome  of  years  of  bitter  longing  and  remorse, 
so  closely  interwoven  that  he  could  hardly  disentangle 
the  meshes  that  had  seemed  to  hold  him  fast  as  in  a 
frightful  net  of  steel. 

And  in  what  may  be  called  his  literary  simplicity,  he 
was  telling  the  story,  a  story  as  old  and  as  new  as  the 
hills,  in  the  first  person,  without  the  least  attempt  at  lit 
erary  adornment,  describing  the  scenes  with  a  minute 
fidelity  that  he  himself  did  not  realize,  it  being  the  es 
sence  of  the  thousands  of  times  that  he  had  not  thought 
of  them,  but  been  literally  possessed  by  the  memory  of 
them. 

There  was,  in  the  actual  facts  of  the  case,  absolutely 
not  one  original  or  even  dramatic  circumstance,  until  the 
very  last.  He  had  loved  the  woman,  she  had  loved  him, 
and  they  had  betrayed  the  husband  and  his  friend.  In 
the  end  they  had  been  discovered,  the  husband  had  chal 
lenged  the  young  Englishman,  who  found  in  himself  all 

64 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

the  horror  of  bloodshed  that  was  a  part  of  his  character, 
and  yet,  not  daring  to  refuse  the  man  he  had  injured  the 
satisfaction  that  to  that  man  was  the  only  one  possible, 
was  obliged  to  accept  the  challenge. 

Hardy  had  fired  in  the  air ;  his  bullet,  striking  a  tree, 
rebounded,  struck  the  Italian,  and  killed  him  instantly. 
After  this  the  hatred  of  himself,  the  forced  interview 
with  the  woman,  the  sight  of  whom  drove  him  nearly  to 
madness,  his  flight 

It  was  to  this  climax  that  his  characters  were  leading 
him  rather  than  he  them,  though  as  yet  he  was  in  the 
pleasant  days  of  the  very  beginning;  the  days  of  lazy 
driving  over  pleasant  mountain  roads,  of  evenings  in  {he 
dusky  drawing-room  when  the  light  of  the  scattered  wax 
candles  caught  gleams  of  gold  from  high  cornices,  and 
flickered  over  the  faded  satin  of  the  scant  furniture;  of 
fire-fly  lit  garden  walks,  heavy  with  the  odors  of  thick- 
skinned  white  flowers.  As  he  wrote,  a  faint  smile  rested 
on  the  man's  face,  revealing  itself  in  the  relaxed  mus 
cles  about  the  invisible  mouth,  and  softening  the  lines 
about  his  eyes. 

The  house  was  awake  now;  Katie  in  the  next  room 
opened  the  blinds  with  a  subdued  bang;  and  the  regular 
sweep  of  a  broom  reached  him.  It  was  this  sound  that  at 
length  aroused  him  to  a  sense  of  his  surroundings.  His 
pen  paused,  began  again  its  steady  motion,  paused  again, 
and  fell  from  his  fingers,  while  he  looked  up  with  hag 
gard,  questioning  eyes.  It  was  day ! 

Rising,  he  went  to  the  window,  moving  stiffly  with 
cramp  and  cold,  and  opened  it.  Beyond  spread  the  sea, 

65 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

the  sun  had  come  out,  the  clouds  full  of  pale  color  that 
was  reflected  in  the  still  gray  water. 

"  '  Ye  waters  of  the  Lord,  bless  ye  the  Lord,'  " 
Hardy  said  aloud,  stretching  his  arms  out  into  the  morn 
ing,  and  drawing  in  deep  breaths  of  the  chill  air.  He 
heard  the  nurse  walking  softly  but  heavily  about  over 
head. 

After  a  short  pause  he  gathered  his  papers  and  locked 
them  away  in  a  drawer.  As  he  did  so,  his  eyes  fell  on 
the  neglected  sermon  and  the  little  card-case.  Sitting 
down  he  wrote  on  a  piece  of  paper  "  From  King  Hardy 
to  Lady  Yarrow,  who  will  understand,"  and  putting  it 
and  the  bank  note  into  an  envelope,  addressed  it  to 
Lady  Yarrow.  Then,  avoiding  the  servant,  he  went  up 
to  his  room.  The  day  passed  as  a  day  in  a  dream. 

In  church  he  watched  the  five  small  faces  ranged  by 
good  Miss  Tench,  hardly  realizing  that  they  belonged  to 
him.  They  did  not  anger  him,  as  they  had  in  his  days 
of  madness  often  done ;  they  were  merely  far  off,  remote 
from  his  consciousness. 

He  preached  an  old  sermon,  one  of  his  earlier  ones — 
a  better  one,  as  to  substance,  he  realized,  with  a  curious 
spirit  of  criticism,  though  decidedly  inferior  in  style, 
than  any  of  his  later  compositions.  It  was  on  the  Beati 
tudes. 

"  Blessed  are  the  pure  in  heart  " — he  paused  imper 
ceptibly  as  he  came  to  the  words.  What  was  he  ?  What 
was  the  story  locked  away  in  his  drawer  at  home  ? — ' '  for 
they  shall  see  God." 

As  he  was  putting  on  his  coat  in  the  vestry,  after  the 
66 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

service,  Harper,  the  grocer  and  church-warden,  came  in. 
1  *  Good  morning,  Mr.  'Ardy.  That  was  a  very  fine  ser 
mon  this  morning,  sir." 

"I'm  glad  you  liked  it,  Harper." 

' '  I  'ope,  sir,  as  what  you  said  about  the  pure  in  'eart 
wasn't  a — little  hit  at  me?  I  mean  about  that  h 'ad 
vertisement.  ' ' 

Hardy  rose  from  tying  his  boot  lace,  the  veins  in  his 
temples  dark.  "  What  an  idea,  Harper!  Not  in  the 
least,  not  in  the  least,  man.  The  sermon  was  written  two 
years  ago." 

"I'm  very  glad.  Very  glad,  indeed.  I'm  as  easy 
going  as  most  men  in  my  line  o '  business,  Mr.  'Ardy,  but 
I  wouldn't  like  it  said  as  I  was  impure  o'  heart." 

Hardy  shook  hands  with  him  and  struck  out  over  the 
fields  homewards. 

The  conversation  had  given  him  a  slight  shock,  but  he 
was  too  busy  forcing  his  thoughts  away  from  the  story 
with  which  his  brain  was  filled,  into  a  suitable  Sunday 
channel,  to  have  it  make  any  deep  impression  on  him. 
Conscientiously  he  went  through  his  round  of  duties, 
read  the  evening  service,  taught  his  class  of  young  men  in 
the  school,  and  read  for  an  hour  from  the  Bible  to  a  pecu 
liarly  critical  and  captious  old  woman  whose  reverence 
and  admiration  for  Christ  seemed  to  express  itself  by  a 
systematic  and  ill-natured  depreciation  of  those  who  sur 
rounded  Him. 

"  But  Christ  himself  loved  John,  you  know,  Mrs. 
Burrage,"  Hardy  protested,  patiently,  after  an  outburst 
of  scorn  over  some  fancied  delinquency  on  the  part  of 

67 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

that  apostle.     Mrs.  Burrage,  who  chewed  tobacco,  spit 
with  venom  and  accuracy  into  the  fire. 

"  'E  was  lonesome-like,  no  doubt,  poor  dear,  and 
John  was  the  likeliest,  'cordin'  to  the  pictures.  Some- 
thin'  like  my  'Enry  before  'e  took  to  drink." 

Briggs,  the  bricklayer,  who,  thanks  to  Lord  Yarrow 's 
generosity,  had  had  the  best  of  care,  was  also  to  be  vis 
ited  that  day,  and  Hardy  bravely  partook,  by  the  bed  on 
which  the  injured  man  still  lay,  of  tea  and  cakes  pre 
pared  by  Mrs.  Briggs  herself,  that  good  woman  having 
become  quite  reconciled  to  a  parson  who  brought  such 
substantial  benefits  with  him. 

•  Hardy  dined  that  evening  at  the  Tenchs,  and  an 
swered  the  thousand  questions  of  the  older  children  re 
garding  the  new  sister,  on  the  desirability  of  whose 
presence  in  the  wrorld  there  was  a  marked  division 
of  opinion. 

Tench,  when  the  two  men  were  smoking  together  over 
the  fire,  explained  at  some  length  to  Hardy  the  nervous 
condition  of  his  wife.  "  She  needs  building  up,  Hardy. 
A  complete  change  would  be  the  best  thing  for  her, 
but  I  suppose  you  can 't — hem — spare  her,  so  we  shall 
have  to  try  what  port  and  beef -juice  will  do.  I've 
never  seen  her  so  weak  as  she  is  this  time,  even  after 
the  twins." 

Hardy  winced.  "  Yes,  yes.  Port  and  beef -juice, " 
he  repeated.  ' '  Anything  else  you  can  suggest,  Tench  ?  ' ' 

And  Tench,  the  kindest  little  man  in  the  world,  long 
ing  to  help  his  friend,  whose  straits  he  perfectly  realized, 
could  say  no  more. 

68 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

At  about  ten  o  'clock  Hardy  went  home.  His  wife  was 
awake,  and,  thinking  of  the  bank  note  that  she  supposed 
to  be  in  her  drawer,  in  a  rather  hopeful  frame  of  mind. 
"  I  have  been  thinking,"  she  said,  "  of  cutting  down  the 
merino  cloak  your  Aunt  Merrick  gave  Anna,  and  having 
it  dyed  for  a  coat  for  Harold.  Then  my  flannel  petti 
coats  will  do  very  nicely  for  the  older  girls — I  quite  hate 
flannel  of  late,  for  some  reason.  And — oh,  you  will  see — 
I  have  a  whole  trunkful  of  old  things  that  will  look  like 
new  when  I  Ve  made  them  over.  It 's  only  a  little  strength 
I  need." 

He  knew  that  she  was  lying ;  that  the  old  things  that 
would  look  as  well  as  new  were  to  be  new — bought  with 
Mary  Yarrow 's  money — the  money  he  had  sent  back  that 
morning.  With  an  ache  in  his  breast  he  listened  to  her 
cunning  paving  of  the  way.  She  had  always  been  the 
most  truthful  of  women,  and  now  she  was  lying  to  him. 
Silently  he  listened,  and  at  length  left  her,  satisfied  with 
her  cleverness,  and  went  downstairs.  The  house  was 
very  still ;  it  was  after  eleven.  He  sat  down  and 
tried  to  read.  It  was  impossible,  his  brain  refused  to 
obey  him  and  wandered  off  repeatedly  to  the  for 
bidden  subject. 

He  opened  the  window  and  stood  looking  out  into  the 
darkness.  It  brought  him  back  to  that  other  darkness, 
the  palpitating,  fragrant  darkness  of  summer  southern 
Italy  that  is  only  not  light.  Seizing  his  hat,  he  rushed 
out  into  the  garden  and  paced  up  and  down  the  narrow 
path  repeating  aloud  parts  of  the  Old  Testament  learned 
as  a  task  when  he  was  a  boy. 

69 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

At  length  the  Borrowdaile  church  clock  struck  mid 
night,  and  content  with  his  fantastic  adhesion  to  the  let 
ter  of  the  Law  against  the  Spirit  of  which  he  was  tran 
quilly  transgressing,  the  man  went  back  to  the  house, 
took  out  his  MS.  and  began  work  at  it  again. 


70 


CHAPTER     IX 

KING  HARDY  was  a  little  drunk.  No  one  but  he  knew 
it,  for  he  had  himself  well  in  hand,  and  after  the  first 
glass  of  champagne  had  gone  to  his  head — a  toast  pro 
posed  by  the  Rector  of  Borrowdaile  to  a  certain  change 
in  South  Africa — he  had  been  very  careful. 

He  sat  between  Rebecca  Dudley  and  a  little  Miss 
Lyon.  Opposite  him,  seen,  to  his  slightly  bewildered 
gaze,  as  through  a  mist  of  pink  roses  and  dancing  lights, 
Madame  Perez's  bare  shoulders  and  beautiful  head. 

Gravely  he  told  himself  that  her  gown  was  of  black 
velvet ;  he  had  seen  it  before  dinner. 

Lady  Yarrow  wore  white,  Miss  Lyon  pink,  Mrs.  Dud 
ley  purple,  with  a  necklace  of  amethysts  mounted  in 
Roman  gold. 

Hardy  had  been  very  hungry,  for  he  had  sent  his 
share  of  the  family  luncheon  to  a  poor  family  in  the  vil 
lage,  but  after  his  soup,  found  his  appetite  to  have  fled, 
and  he  sat,  talking  little,  gazing  dreamily  at  the  flowers, 
the  silver,  and  at  the  beautiful  woman  opposite  him,  in  a 
delicious  half  stupor  in  which  he  knew  he  could  indulge, 
protected  as  he  was  by  his  character  for  ascetic  sobriety, 
and  his  impassive  face. 

"  How  is  Mrs.  Hardy?  "  Mrs.  Dudley  leaned  forward 
over  the  low  tangle  of  roses. 

71 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

"  She  is  very  well,  thanks."  He  spoke  slowly,  his 
eyes  fixed  steadily  on  her. 

"  And  the  little  girl?  " 

' '  The  little  girl  is  very  well,  too, ' '  he  went  on.  Sud 
denly  a  cold  fear  came  over  him.  Suppose  some  one 
asked  him  the  new  baby 's  name !  He  had  forgotten  it. 
And  Mrs.  Dudley  always  asked  the  new  baby 's  name ;  it 
was  one  of  her  principles  that  people  liked  to  have  her 
ask  the  new  baby 's  name.  What  on  earth  should  he  say 
if  she  should  ask  it  ? 

Then  he  found  that  he  didn't  care  one  way  or  the 
other.  If  she  did,  he'd  tell  the  truth  and  own  that  he 
had  forgotten ;  they  would  all  think  him  mad,  but  that 
did  not  matter ;  whom  the  gods  wish  to  destroy  they  first 
make  mad ;  possibly  the  gods  wished  to  destroy  him ;  that 
didn't  matter,  either 

"  Oh,  no,  7  didn't  read  it,"  Miss  Lyon  was  saying. 
"  Papa  wouldn't  let  me.  He  said  it  was  horrid.  Did  you 
read  it,  Sir  Ludovic?  " 

Sir  Ludovic  closed  his  mouth,  a  proceeding  with 
which  he  was  obliged  to  prepare  a  remark,  unkind  nature 
having  made  it  slightly  open  in  moments  of  repose. 
"  Oh,  yes,  I  read  it.  All  of  us  fellows  did.  Don't  see 
any  harm  in  it  anyway.  Don't  see  why  your  father 
wouldn  't  let  you  read  it.  He  took  you  to  see  '  Mrs.  Taii- 
queray.'  ' 

"  Oh,  Sir  Ludovic,"  Lady  Yarrow  came  to  the  res 
cue,  ' '  it  is  a  horrid  book.  I  think  Miss  Lyon  is  perfectly 
right.  There  is  no  reason  for  a  girl 's  reading  such  stuff. ' ' 
Sir  Ludovic,  who  in  spite  of  his  loose-hinged  jaw,  and 

72 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

consequent  air  of  amiable  foolishness,  realized  perfectly 
well  that  Miss  Lyon  was  a  year  older  than  he  himself, 
therefore  twenty-six,  and  that  she  had  the  amiable 
though  unexpressed  wish  of  being  the  best  of  wives  to 
him,  subsided  into  silence  with  a  smile. 

Hardy  looked  at  Miss  Lyon  curiously.  In  a  few 
months  she  would  be  reading  and  denying  his  book.  He 
wondered  whether  she  would  like  it?  Madame  Perez 
turned  to  speak  to  Mr.  Dudley,  and  the  diamonds  on  her 
neck  stirred  brilliantly. 

' '  Black  velvet, ' '  Hardy  reminded  himself  again.  Her 
gown  was  no  lower  than  Lady  Yarrow's  or  even  the  sim 
ple  Miss  Lyon 's,  but  the  splendid  long  slope  of  her  shoul 
ders  and  the  magnolia-like  quality  of  her  skin  made  her 
seem  much  more  decollete  than  the  others.  Yarrow's 
latest  picture  of  her  was  just  finished,  and  after  dinner 
was  to  be  shown. 

Mrs.  Dudley,  who  had  seen  it  a  few  days  before,  was 
telling  of  a  portrait  of  herself  painted  in  her  youth  by 
a  very  celebrated  German  painter  of  whom  no  one  pres 
ent  had  ever  heard. 

"  I  wore  a  blue  gown  and  a  lace  scarf  just  open  at  the 
neck,"  she  said. 

The  dinner  went  on.  Hardy  listened,  and  spoke  lit 
tle,  but  this  was  his  habit  and  no  one  noticed  particularly. 
The  atmosphere,  the  soft  brilliance  of  the  lights,  the  two 
glasses  of  wine  he  had  drunk,  the  scent  of  the  roses,  had 
a  most  delicious  effect  upon  him.  He  was  very  happy; 
happier  than  he  had  been  for  years.  For  a  fortnight  he 
had  worked  at  his  book,  living  in  it,  knowing  no 

73 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

effort,  no  weariness  beyond  that  in  his  hand  that  from 
time  to  time  forced  him  to  lay  down  his  pen  and  stretch 
his  cramped  fingers.  Too  conscientious  to  neglect  the 
least  of  his  duties,  he  had  gone  through  the  monotonous 
round  day  after  day,  auditing  the  accounts  of  the  differ 
ent  little  clubs  and  addressing  the  two  societies  and  vis 
iting  the  sick  as  well  as  reading  the  usual  services. 

Therefore  he  had  been  compelled,  in  his  overpower 
ing  interest  in  his  book,  to  steal  time  for  it  from  the  late 
nights  and  the  early  mornings.  Wrapped  in  his  great 
coat,  for  the  winter  had  set  in  very  cold,  and  he  would 
not  allow  himself  extra  fires,  he  sat  hour  after  hour  at 
his  writing  table,  his  hand  blue  and  pinched,  traveling 
rapidly  over  the  paper  originally  dedicated  to  a  so  widely 
different  purpose.  He  lived  at  those  times,  existed  at  all 
others,  in  spite  of  the  strong  curb  he  put  on  his  thoughts 
when  once  the  MS.  was  locked  away  and  the  pen  laid 
aside.  The  woman  in  the  book,  Gilda,  he  called  her,  was 
a  living,  breathing,  sinning  woman,  no  creation  of  a  how 
ever  vivid  fancy;  the  man  was  himself.  Himself  at 
twenty-seven,  seen  and  understood  by  himself  at  forty- 
two. 

He  laid  bare  every  thought  of  the  boy's  heart, 
thoughts  vain  at  first,  and  innocent,  as  the  boy  would 
not  have  believed  them,  as  the  man  knew  them  to  be,  and 
then  showed  in  his  terrible  truth  and  simplicity,  the 
growth  of  the  sin,  the  blackening  of  the  innocence.  It 
was  all  there,  analyzed  by  a  man  who  all  unknown  to 
himself  possessed  a  rare  gift  for  analysis,  and  in  whose 
tortured  memory  the  often  reviewed  scenes  had  grown 

74 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

to  a  perfection  of  truth  and  detail  that  needed  only  the 
touch  of  pen  and  ink  to  become  alive. 

The  thing  had  taken  hold  of  him  with  such  a  force  as 
to  obliterate  all  memory  of  his  original  idea  in  writing 
it.  He  had  forgotten  that  he  was  working  for  money, 
and  knew  only  the  keen  joy  of  artistic  creation. 

He  had  lost  all  feeling  of  anger  with  his  wife  long  be 
fore  he  told  her,  very  gently,  of  his  sending  the  money 
back  to  Lady  Yarrow,  and  had  met  Lady  Yarrow  for  the 
first  time  after  his  discovery,  with  a  dignified  reproach 
that  surprised  her  into  begging  his  pardon. 

Mary  thought  of  it  now,  as  she  watched  him  gazing 
absently  at  the  roses.  He  looked  very  tired,  but  some 
how,  nevertheless,  younger  and  more  human  than  she  had 
ever  seen  him.  The  side  he  showed  even  to  the  friends  he 
loved — and  in  his  way  he  loved  the  Yarrows — was  the 
stern  side  which  was  his  armor  against  the  world,  and 
Mary  had  never  suspected  him  of  the  possession  of  an 
other. 

The  dinner  was  very  dull.  Mary  Yarrow  hated  be 
ing  dull,  and  these  small  dinners,  too  small  for  ceremony, 
too  large  for  cosiness,  were  a  cross  to  her.  Even  Mr. 
Dudley  was  not  amusing ;  he  had  a  bad  cold  in  his  head, 
and  knew  that  he  would  be  well  scolded  for  it,  later. 

Hardy  had  eaten  nothing,  and  before  the  welcome 
signal  for  the  ladies  to  go  passed  him  on  its  way  to  Mrs. 
Dudley,  he  hastily  drained  his  wine  glass.  This  state  of 
conscious  Nirvana  was  too  delicious  to  forego,  for  once — 
there  were  too  many  disagreeables  to  be  faced  on  the 
awakening. 

6  75 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

As  he  held  the  door  open,  Madame  Perez  paused  in 
passing  him  and  smiled  into  his  eyes  in  a  way  that  struck 
him  as  rather  unnecessary,  though  not  unpleasantly  be 
wildering. 

' '  Do  not  stay  long, ' '  she  said.  ' '  I  am  going  to  die  of 
boredom,  and  I  want  to  talk  to  you. ' ' 

Hardy  had  had  little  to  do  with  women  in  his  life.  He 
had  studied  hard  at  Oxford,  and  at  five-and-twenty  made 
a  tour  around  the  world  with  his  uncle,  who  showed  it  to 
him  as  a  planet  on  which  flourished  cities  and  towns  in 
teresting  for  their  position  and  architecture,  but  filled 
with,  on  the  whole,  somewhat  superfluous  people.  They 
traveled  for  two  years,  during  which  the  young  man  met 
not  one  woman  of  his  own  class.  Then,  his  uncle  being 
called  home  from  Rome  on  the  business  that  proved  to  be 
the  commencement  of  his  financial  ruin,  Hardy  had  lin 
gered  in  Italy,  and  the  one  woman  had  come  into  his  life. 
Later  he  had  in  his  remorse  and  agony  buried  himself  in 
study  at  his  uncle's  country  house,  and  had  just  taken 
orders  when  the  crash  came  that  reduced  him  from  the 
position  of  heir  to  a  very  rich  man  to  that  of  an  absolute 
ly  penniless  curate  of  twenty-nine  with  no  prospects  of 
any  kind. 

After  a  year  in  the  north  of  England  someone  had 
offered  him  the  poor  living  of  Carbury,  and  before 
going  to  it  he  had  married  Abby  Brent,  the  pretty  daugh 
ter  of  his  rector — out  of  a  mixture  of  liking,  loneliness, 
and  satisfaction  in  her  being  the  absolute  antithesis  of 
Silvia  Aldobrandi. 

These  were  the  two  women  he  had  known,  Silvia  Aldo- 
76 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

brandi,  a  ripe  woman  of  the  world,  several  years  older 
than  himself,  and  Abby  Brent,  the  country  girl  who  had 
never  been  a  day  from  home  in  her  life,  and  whose  sim 
ple  brain  could  conceive  no  one  more  splendid  than  the 
sad-eyed  young  man  who  had  been  around  the  world ! 

He  went  back  to  the  table  and  sat  listening  to  a  lively 
discussion  of  Lord  Roberts,  with  absent  eyes  still  bent  on 
the  flowers,  beyond  which  no  white  shoulders  now  rose. 
He  hoped  Madame  Perez  wanted  to  give  him  more  money 
for — for  whom?  He  and  his  own  family  needed  help 
more  than  any  of  his  parishioners. 

He  burst  into  a  sudden  laugh,  and  Sir  Ludovic  looked 
at  him  approvingly.  "  Not  a  bad  story,  was  it?  "  the 
young  man  asked.  "  And  Waring  vows  it's  true." 

Lord  Yarrow  waited  until  the  other  men  were  talking 
together  again,  and  then  said  in  a  low  voice:  "  What 
did  you  laugh  at,  King?  " 

Hardy  shook  his  head.  ' '  At  something  I  was  think 
ing  of." 

If  she  didn't  want  to  give  him  money,  why  did  she 
ask  him  to  come  soon  ?  Her  eyes  were  as  yellow  as  a  pan 
ther 's — though  panthers  might  have  violet  eyes  for  all  he 
really  knew. 

'  What  a  lot  of  stuff  people  take  for  granted,  don't 
they?  "  he  asked  Yarrow.  "  I  mean  in  the  way  of 
knowledge.  And  how  little  one  knows  from  one's  own 
observation!  "  Yarrow  was  a  little  surprised. 

"  Yes,  that  is  true.  I  was  thinking  yesterday,  while 
painting,  what  stuff  people  talk  about  complexions,  for 
instance.  Mary,  as  an  example,  looks  very  white,  but 

77 


HE    AND    HECUBA 

in  painting  her  I  have  to  use  a  lot  of  blue,  and  the  skin 
tints  in  my  picture  of  Madame  Perez  are  almost  entirely 
made  up  of — green!  " 

"  I  should  have  thought  yellow.  By  the  way,  how 
long  is  that  boy  going  to  scold  about  Lord  Roberts  ?  Your 
uncle  is  half  asleep." 

Yarrow  nodded.  "  Yes.  And  Mary  will  be  half 
asleep  upstairs.  Why  don 't  you  go  ?  Make  Mary  sing. ' ' 

Hardy  obeyed  willingly,  after  drinking  the  rest  of 
his  wine.  Things  were  still  veiled  to  him  in  a  roseate 
mist,  but  he  was  perfectly  his  own  master.  When  he  en 
tered  the  drawing-room  he  paused  for  a  few  seconds  by 
Lady  Yarrow  and  Mrs.  Dudley,  who  were  politely  spar 
ring  in  a  corner,  and  then  went  and  sat  down  by  Madame 
Perez,  whose  side  Miss  Lyon  vacated  at  his  approach. 

"  Here  I  am,"  he  said,  simply. 

She  looked  at  him  keenly  for  a  few  seconds,  and  then 
asked  with  a  smile :  ' '  Well — how  do  you  like  it  ?  " 

"  How  do  I  like— what?  " 

"  The  effects  of  no  food  and  too  much  wine." 

"  How  did  you  know?  "  he  asked,  slowly,  his  gray 
eyes  fixed  on  hers. 

"  Oh,  I  know  a  number  of  things.  Do  you  know 
what  magnetism  is?  " 

He  laughed.    "  I  don't  believe  in  it." 

"  Oh,  don't  you.  Well,  I  do.  And  if  you  were  a  few 
years  younger  and  a  little  different  from  what  you  have 
made  yourself,  there  would  be,  little  as  I  thought  it  the 
first  time  I  saw  you,  a  good  deal  between  you  and  me." 

"  '  What  I  have  made  myself?  '  What  do  you 
78 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

mean  1  "  No  woman  had  ever  spoken  so  to  him  and  he 
asked  his  question  with  serious  interest. 

Madame  Perez  laughed.  "  Do  you  think  I  don't 
know  that  your  life  is  one  struggle  to  be  what 
you  are  not?  Never  mind — Lady  Yarrow  is  going  to 
sing." 

The  other  men  had  come  in  now,  and  the  little  party 
sat  listening,  each  member  of  it  carried  by  the  something 
in  Lady  Yarrow's  voice  that  made  it  what  it  was,  far 
away  from  the  actual  scene.  Even  Mrs.  Dudley's  eyes 
were  fixed  with  a  curious  intensity,  and  her  husband's 
full  of  unconscious  tears. 

Hardy  sat  with  folded  arms,  his  head  sunk  on  his 
breast,  his  eyes  half  closed.  Madame  Perez  watched  him 
with  the  interest  of  a  woman  who  has  deliberately  put  a 
thought  of  herself  into  a  man's  mind,  and  is  clever 
enough  to  be  able  to  watch  it  germinate. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  the  thought  was  at  present  in  a 
very  elementary  state,  and  Hardy  more  conscious  of  the 
feeling  of  youth  that  had  come  to  him,  of  the  exquisite 
lack  of  responsibility,  the  non-existence  of  to-morrow, 
than  he  was  of  any  individual  whatever.  And  if  there 
was  a  personal  trend  in  the  thoughts  which  were  too 
vague  to  be  called  thoughts,  it  was  towards  the  Silvia 
Aldobrandi  of  the  long  ago. 

Lady  Yarrow  was  singing  a  modern  French  song 
now — "  L'oubli  me  serait  odieux — Seule  elle  peut  mon 
mal  guerir."  Mr.  Hardy  had  personally  no  ills.  Look 
ing  up  he  met  Madame  Perez's  eyes.  "  Et  j'aime  mieux 
— en  mourir?  "  Lady  Yarrow's  beautiful  voice  died 

79 


HE    AND    HECUBA 

away,  and  after  a  little  pause,  which  no  one  broke,  she 
rose. 

Hardy  stared  at  her  a  minute,  then  back  at  Madame 
Perez,  who  was  watching  him  curiously,  but  he  saw 
neither  the  one  nor  the  other. 

Suddenly  he  held  out  his  hand.  "  Good  night,  Ma 
dame  Perez,"  he  said,  absently.  "  I  am  going.  I  have 
some  work  to  do — 

Her  eyes  followed  him  as  he  made  his  hasty  adieus, 
and  then  when  the  door  had  closed  behind  him,  a  smile 
came  to  her  lips,  and  she  shrugged  her  shoulders  slightly. 


80 


CHAPTER   X 

IT  was  four  o'clock,  the  following  afternoon,  and 
Hardy  sat  before  his  writing-table,  his  hands  lying 
loosely  on  the  green  cover,  his  eyes  vacant.  The  lamp 
was  lit,  but  the  curtains  were  not  drawn,  and  the  room 
was  filled  with  the  melancholy,  uncertain  shadows  of 
mingled  daylight  and  lamplight.  The  fire  had  gone  out ; 
the  hearth  was  a  waste  of  ashes.  Hardy  had  just  come 
in  and  was  very  tired. 

He  had  written  all  night,  not  going  to  bed  at  all.  All 
night,  until  the  pale  dawn  crept  in  at  the  windows,  he  had 
been  living  in  the  past,  loving  the  beautiful  woman  whom 
he  called  Gilda,  but  who  was  the  Silvia  Aldobrandi  of  his 
youth.  There  she  had  been,  with  her  voice,  her  eyebrows, 
the  quaint  little  movements  of  the  hands  that  set  her 
apart  from  all  other  women ;  and  there  he  had  been,  liv 
ing  it  all  over  again,  aghast,  horrified,  yet  unable  to  re 
sist,  because  he  loved  her.  Aldobrandi,  too,  had  been 
there,  small,  alert,  with  serene  vanity  in  his  power  over 
women,  his  conquests  of  whom  he  related  often  to  the 
Englishman,  every  light  word  he  uttered  a  blow  to  the 
boy's  feeble  defences  against  the  evil  that  was  besieging 
him.  He  had  read  it  all  over  when  he  first  came  back 

81 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

from  the  Yarrows — read  it  through  a  faintly  swaying 
mist  that  lent  at  once  a  curious  vagueness  and  a  poignant 
distinctness  to  it  all. 

It  was  he  who  sat  there  with  the  beautiful  woman  in 
his  arms ;  it  was  to  him  she  whispered ;  he  smelt  the  gar 
denias  in  her  hair,  he  felt  her  bare  arm  on  his  neck. 
And  then — he  had  come  to  the  end  of  the  time — the  last 
sentence  ended  abruptly —  This  had  been  the  point  at 
which  his  conscience  had  awakened,  that  conscience  that 
had  been  torturing  him  ever  since ;  and  it  was  in  the  state 
of  half  intoxication,  while  he  still  floated  in  the  clouds 
of  pleasure  and  luxurious  dreaminess  that  had  caught 
him  up  with  his  second  glass  of  champagne,  that  he  must 
take  down,  minutely,  the  record  of  what  followed  those 
sunny  days.  He  had  come  to  the  tragedy.  It  was  just 
here,  after  the  walk  in  the  olive  grove,  that  the  torturing 
remorse  that  had  drawn  the  lines  in  his  face,  had 
gripped  him. 

Wrapped  in  his  shabby  dressing-gown  he  began  to 
write.  The  paper  swam  before  him,  under  the  noiseless 
skimming  of  the  pen.  And  here  came  the  sudden 
change  of  style  that  so  puzzled  people  later.  For  his 
view-point  had  changed.  He  had  not  moved,  but  the 
earth  had  swung  around  under  his  feet,  and  he  saw 
everything  differently.  He  saw,  after,  as  it  seemed  to 
him,  years  of  blindness,  the  folly  of  renunciation,  the 
wickedness  of  denying  to  one 's  heart  the  love  that  is  the 
one  spark  of  Divinity  left  to  us ;  the  needlessness  of  re 
grets,  lasting  a  lifetime,  for  what  priggishness  considers 
Sin. 

82 


His  anguish  at  parting  with  the  woman  who  clung 
to  him  even  when  his  hands  were  red  with  the  blood 
that  ran  in  her  child's  veins  looked  to  him,  in  this  cu 
rious  enlightenment,  a  useless  sacrifice.  On  and  on  he 
had  written,  rising  unconsciously  to  a  height  of  lyrism 
that  vaguely  pleased  him,  writing  what  was  poetry  as 
beautiful  in  its  feeling  and  expression  as  it  was  rotten  in 
substance. 

The  horror  of  the  duel  he  passed  over  lightly;  it  was 
no  longer  horrible  to  him.  It  was  the  natural  outcome 
of  the  natural  sequence  of  events  for  which  he  had  been 
put  into  the  world.  Aldobrandi  had  done  what  he  had 
done,  a  hundred  times,  according  to  his  own  accounts, 
and  now,  by  a  stroke  of  ill-luck — the  projecting  branch 
of  a  tree  causing  the  rebound  of  a  bullet  sent  into 
the  air  with  a  ridiculously  Quixotic  intent,  had  cut 
the  knot,  and  he,  the  "  I  "  of  the  book,  had  been  a 
thousand  times  a  fool  for  his  frantic  refusal  of  the 
situation. 

The  lamp  fluttered  as  he  wrote  the  last  words — half 
a  page  of  brilliant  self-mockery — and  went  out.  He  had 
not  lighted  the  candle ;  it  was  day. 

Going  to  the  window  he  had  stood  there  a  minute, 
and  then,  hurriedly  stuffing  the  MS.  into  an  envelope 
addressed  and  stamped  it,  and,  early  as  it  was,  had  put 
on  his  coat  and  hat  and  going  down  to  the  village,  put  it 
in  the  letter  box. 

The  air  had  made  him  curiously  sleepy,  and  on  re 
gaining  his  study  he  had,  too  tired  to  make  the  effort  of 
going  upstairs,  fallen  asleep  in  his  chair.  An  hour  later 

83 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

he  had  been  called  to  a  sick  bed  and  a  busy  day  had 
begun. 

Now,  towards  evening,  he  sat,  worn  out,  his  occu 
pation  gone,  his  brain  empty,  his  relaxed  hands  heavy 
on  the  table. 

The  lamp  stood  between  him  and  the  study  door,  so 
that  when  at  this  point  a  small  hand  began  an  assault 
on  that  door,  and  at  length  succeeded  in  opening  it,  he 
merely  said,  blinking  under  his  eyebrows :  ' '  Run  away, 
MacDougall,  father  is  busy."  Then  a  sudden  strong 
smell  of  hot-house  flowers  reached  him,  he  started,  hold 
ing  up  his  head  to  the  light,  and  saw  Rosalba  Perez 
standing  before  him,  holding  the  small  guide  by  the 
hand.  In  her  arms,  across  the  dark  fur  of  her  cape  and 
muff,  she  carried  a  great  sheaf  of  long-stemmed  red 
roses,  such  as  Hardy  had  never  seen. 

"  I  hope  I  do  not  disturb  you,"  she  said,  without 
coming  forward.  "  I  have  brought  these  roses  for  Mrs. 
Hardy,  and  this  little  man  who  was  in  the  garden 
brought  me  here. ' ' 

"  You  are  very  kind — very  kind,  indeed,"  he  stam 
mered,  dumping  a  doll  and  the  nursing-bottle  out  of  the 
armchair  and  offering  it  to  her.  "  Will  you  not  sit 
down?  "  He  was  overwhelmed  with  a  two-fold  confu 
sion.  His  weakness  the  night  before  must,  he  knew,  be 
in  her  memory  still;  then  he  wore  the  ragged  dressing- 
gown,  and  his  collar  and  cuffs  lay  on  the  table.  His  face 
whitened  with  his  cruel  embarrassment  and  he  stood 
looking  hopelessly  at  her,  wordless. 

"  The  roses  were  sent  to  me  this  morning  from  Lon- 
84 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

don,  by  an  American.  They  are  called  American  Beau 
ties.  It  is  a  good  name,  don't  you  think?  All  the 
North  American  beauties  I  have  seen  are  like  them — 
with  beautiful  heads  and  too  long,  too  slim  bodies.  How 
is  Mrs.  Hardy?  I  hope  she  will  let  me  come  and  see  her 
soon — informally.  I  love  little  babies." 

She  talked  placidly  on  without  the  slightest  sign  of 
confusion  or  of  recognition  of  his,  until  the  man  had 
gathered  his  wits  together  and  could  answer  her.  He  ad 
mired  the  roses,  promised  to  take  her  kind  messages  to 
his  wife,  sent  the  violently  protesting  MacUougall  to 
have  Katie  take  off  his  coat  and  overshoes,  and  then 
when  the  door  closed,  he  said,  stiffly:  "  It  was  very 
kind  of  you  to  come,  Mrs.  Perez,  but  you  can  see  for 
yourself  that — that — we  can  not  receive  people.  We  are 
too  poor.  It  is  so  cold  in  this  room  that  I  dare  not  ask 
you  to  take  off  your  furs,  or  you  would  shiver;  I  am 
wearing  this  old  dressing-gown  to  save  my  coat,  and  my 
collar  and  cuffs  are  on  the  table  so  that  I  can  wear 
them  again  to-morrow.  Such  a  house  as  this  is  no  place 
for  a  woman  like  you  to  visit."  His  tone  grew  rough 
as  he  went  on,  and  at  last  was  almost  rude. 

She  listened,  her  eyes  fixed  on  him,  and  then,  after  a 
short  pause,  came  her  answer. 

'  What  was  the  name  of  the  Scotch  poet  who  wrote 
the  poem,  '  A  man's  a  man  for  a'  that'?  " 

"  Burns,"  faltered  Hardy. 

"  Good.  I  like  you,  Mr.  Hardy,  and  I  don't  care  a 
button  whether  you  wear  a  collar  at  home  or  not;  I  like 
you,  and  I  don't  care  whether  your  dressing-gown  is  old 

85 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

or  not ;  I  like  you,  and  unless  you — chuck  me  out,  I  mean 
to  stay  for  a  few  minutes,  now  that  I'm  here,  because  I 
walked  and  I'm  tired." 

He  drew  a  deep  breath.  "  It  is  very  kind  of  you  to 
say  you  like  me,  though  I'm  sure  I  don't  see  why  you 
should.  A  clergyman  who  gets  drunk  at  a  dinner  is  not 
a  particularly  estimable  specimen  of  humanity,  and  I 
have  been  very  rude  to  you. ' ' 

She  laughed.  "  What  a  terribly  uncompromising 
man  you  are.  You  were  no  more  drunk  the  other  night 
than  I  was." 

"  I  was.  I  did  not  stagger,  and  my  tongue  was  not 
thick,  but  I  was  under  the  influence  of  wine,  and  you 
know  it." 

"  Very  well.  Just  as  you  like.  Are  you  writing  a 
sermon  ?  ' "  She  turned  towards  the  table. 

"No." 

"  I'll  not  ask  whether  you  are  writing  a  book,  be 
cause  you  would  bite  my  head  off  if  I  did.  Does  Mrs. 
Hardy  like  oysters?  " 

He  stared  at  her.  "  Oysters?  I'm  sure  I  don't 
know. ' ' 

"  Then  I  must  find  out.  My  American  adorer,  prac 
tical  as  well  as  poetic,  also  sent  me  a  barrel  of  Ameri 
can  oysters,  '  Blue-Points, '  and  as  I  happen  to  detest  the 
nasty,  slimy  things  I  am  graciously  presenting  them  to 
my  neighbors.  The  Yarrows  love  them,  and  so  does  Mr. 
Dudley,  so  you  must  take  only  a  third  of  the  barrel. 
Now  I'm  going.  Tell  Mrs.  Hardy  to  try  eating  them  raw 
— ugh! — if  she  can,  and  if  she  can't,  one  cooks  them  in 

86 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

cream  or  in  butter.  And  please  let  me  know  when  I  may 
come  and  see  the  new  baby  and  her  mamma.  Please 
don 't  be  disagreeable,  for  I  'm  lonely,  and  can 't  bore  the 
Yarrows  all  day  long.  Good-bye."  She  held  out  her 
hand,  smiled,  and,  beaten  on  all  sides,  he  accompa 
nied  her  to  the  house  door,  the  lamp,  held  high  in 
his  hand,  flooding  light  on  his  shabby  attire  and 
ruffled  hair. 

As  he  opened  the  door,  two  or  three  of  the  children 
came  running  in,  nearly  upsetting  him  and  the  lamp. 

"  Dear  me,  are  these  all  yours?  "  she  asked. 

"  These  and  four  more,"  he  returned,  laughing  a 
little  grimly.  "  Algy,  you  are  old  enough  to  shake  hands 
with  Madame  Perez  like  a  gentleman." 

The  boy,  a  tall,  rather  handsome  little  fellow  of  elev 
en,  held  out  his  hand  and  stared  with  evident  admiration 
at  the  beautiful  face  looking  down  at  him. 

' '  I  say,  are  you  English  ?  "  he  asked,  with  a  certain 
shy  eagerness. 

"  No.     Why?  " 

With  a  quick  glance  at  his  father,  he  answered,  "  Be 
cause  I  think  you  must  be  a  Circassian." 

His  meaning  was  so  obvious,  the  compliment  so  sin 
cere,  that  even  Hardy  laughed,  and  then,  looking  out 
into  the  gathering  darkness,  Madame  Perez  declared  her 
self  afraid  of  walking  home  alone,  and  asked  Algy  to 
accompany  her. 

Very  shy  and  very  proud  he  walked  off  beside  her, 
Hardy  lighting  them  as  far  as  the  gate,  and  then,  still 
dazed  from  the  suddenness  of  her  onslaught  and  his  de- 

87 


feat,  going  back  to  the  study,  where  the  roses  still  lay, 
their  pungent  perfume  filling  the  room. 

"  Roses — and  oysters.  It  will  be  loaf  sugar  and 
lamb  chops  next."  He  sat  down  and  looked  at  the  flow 
ers.  There  had  been  no  such  roses  then,  years  ago — and 
Silvia  was  a  slight,  thin  woman,  rather  of  the  type  of 
Duse,  whose  picture  he  had  seen.  There  was  not  the 
least  resemblance  between  her  and  this  overpowering 
South  American  who  wouldn  't  be  snubbed. 

Taking  the  roses  he  went  up  to  his  wife,  who,  in 
formed  by  MacDougall  of  the  arrival  of  a  beautiful  lady 
with  red  flowers,  was  waiting  impatiently  to  hear  who  it 
was.  ' '  Oh,  dear  me,  King,  how  awful, ' '  she  cried,  when 
he  had  given  her  the  roses  and  told  her  who  the  visitor 
had  been.  "  And  you  not  even  with  a  collar  on." 

Like  Mr.  Tulliver,  this  wifely  sympathy  affected  him 
in  a  way  diametrically  opposed  to  that  which  its  giver 
not  unreasonably  expected. 

"  I  was  embarrassed,"  he  admitted,  rigidly  truth 
ful,  "  but  it  was  idiotic  of  me.  There  is  no  moral  harm 
in  a  man's  wearing  a  ragged  dressing-gown,  and  it  is 
better  to  save  one's  collar  than  to  run  up  a  laundry-bill. 
Madame  Perez  is  a  woman  of  sense,  Abby;  you  will  like 
her." 

Abby  peered  at  him  with  wan  eyes  across  the  flow 
ers.  ' '  Why,  King !  I  shall  like  her,  no  doubt,  but  you 
are  so — so — 

"  So  cross-grained,  poor  little  woman.  And  you  are 
right.  She  is  a  very  pleasant  woman,  but  she  is  no 
friend  for  us,  and  will  probably  see  it  herself  and  not 

88 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

come  any  more."  Then  he  added  reluctantly:  "  Though 
she  did  say  she  was  coming.  She  is  sending  oysters  to 
you. ' '  This  news  was  too  much  for  the  poor  little  wom 
an,  who  had  not  dared  to  utter  a  reproach  or  a  protest 
about  the  returned  bank  note. 

Without  answering,  she  began  to  cry,  her  mouth 
drawn  piteously,  but  uttering  no  sound. 

Hardy  did  not  notice  it  for  a  few  minutes,  and 
then,  when  he  did,  drew  her  head  to  his  shoulder  and 
held  her  patiently  until  she  was  quieted. 

"  Some  one,  an  adorer,  she  said,  sent  them  to  her, 
and,  as  she  dislikes  them,  she's  dividing  the  barrel  be 
tween  Yarrow,  the  Dudleys  and — you.  Under  the  cir 
cumstances,  you  see,  I  really  couldn't  refuse." 

An  hour  or  two  later  the  Yarrows,  who  were  dining 
with  Madame  Perez,  laughed  at  her  childish  delight  in 
the  oysters. 

"  I  must  paint  you  as  the  Goddess  of  Greediness," 
Yarrow  said. 

She  paused,  looking  thoughtfully  for  a  second  at  the 
fat  little  exile  on  her  fork.  "  You  must  never  tell  that 
Terrible  Reverend  that  I  eat  oysters,"  she  said  at 
length. 

"  Why?  "  asked  Lady  Yarrow,  curiously.  Then  the 
other  woman  told  the  story,  ending  with : 

"  I  knew  she  liked  oysters — and  I  knew  that  pig 
headed  man  would  throw  them  at  me  if  I  did  not  invent 
some  beautiful  romance  to  salve  his  horrible  pride — 
Dios!  how  I  did  lie." 


89 


CHAPTER    XI 

THE  Bishop,  describing,  in  connection  with  certain 
later  events,  his  luncheon  with  the  Rector  of  Carbury, 
grew  very  eloquent. 

"  I  had  known  him  as  a  boy,  you  know;  his  uncle, 
poor  Hardy,  was  my  neighbor  and  distant  cousin — and 
King  was  a  charming  young  fellowr — a  little  in  the 
clouds  and  impracticable,  all  that  branch  of  the  family 
is — and  rather  more  than  other  youths  inclined  to  an 
innocent  Sybaritism  that  made  it — the  whole  thing  that 
day — seem  the  more  pitiable  and  incredible  to  me. ' ' 

Mr.  Dudley  nodded.  "  I  did  my  best  to  persuade 
you  to  come  to  me,  if  you  remember, ' '  he  said. 

"  I  know.  But  my  business  was  with  him  and  I  was 
afraid  of  hurting  him.  Besides,  I  didn't  suspect  any 
thing  of  that  kind.  My  dear  Charles,  it  is  no  breach  of 
confidence  to  tell  you  now  that  I  never  sat  down  to  such 
a  meal  in  my  life. 

1  The  table-cloth  had  a  great  hole  in  it;  the  silver 
was  gritty  with  that  sandy  stuff  they  clean  it  with; 
the  plates  cracked  and  nicked —  She  sat  there,  poor 
woman,  draped  in  an  awful  greenish  shawl,  her  eyes 
filling  with  tears  from  time  to  time,  though  God  knows 
I  did  my  best  to  eat  and  be  cheery.  Cheeriness  is  a 

90 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

much  neglected  quality  nowadays — and  Hardy,  as  white 
as  death,  with  a  frown  that  made  him  look  so  like  his 
poor  uncle,  yet,  of  course,  not  apologizing  for  anything 
— it  was  really  horrible." 

Hardy,  struggling  to  meet  the  good  little  man  half 
way  in  his  kindly  efforts  at  smoothing  over  the  situation, 
was  in  a  state  of  mind  nearer  insanity  than  he  had  any 
suspicion  of. 

His  Lordship  came  over  from  Sabley,  where  he  had 
been  visiting  on  some  parochial  business,  and  when  it 
was  over  announced  to  Hardy,  in  his  friendly  little 
way,  that  he  would  gladly  stay  to  luncheon  if  he  were 
asked. 

The  rest  of  the  morning  was  a  horrible  nightmare. 
Abby  burst  into  tears  when  her  husband  announced 
the  guest,  declared  that  there  was  nothing  in  the  house 
to  eat:  that  she  was  ill,  and  that  King  must  tell  the 
Bishop,  or  get  rid  of  him  some  way. 

Hardy  explained  to  her  patiently  that  as  that  was  out 
of  the  question  she  must  do  her  best.  ' '  He  knows  we  are 
poor,  dear,  and  will  not  expect  much." 

But  he  knew  that  any  man  expected  more  than  his 
Lordship  that  day  got;  that  the  chops  were  burnt,  the 
eggs  in  the  omelet  not  quite  irreproachable,  the  potatoes 
uneatable,  and  the  jelly  more  like  glue  than  anything 
else.  Then  the  children  who  were  present  at  the  meal 
ate  carelessly,  bolting  their  food,  and  in  spite  of  an 
occasional  sharp  reprimand,  addressing  Katie  from  time 
to  time.  Hardy  had  not  fully  realized  before  how  ut 
terly  unattractive  and  spoiled  they  were.  Even  Algy, 
?  91 


HE    AND    HECUBA 

the  eldest,  the  only  one  with  anything  approaching  good 
looks,  had,  in  his  clumsily-made  Sunday  suit,  something 
of  the  clodhopper.  The  consciousness  that  their  bad 
manners  were  to  a  great  measure  due  to  their  father's 
carelessness,  did  not  tend  to  console  that  father. 

It  was  one  of  the  most  horrible  episodes  of  his  life, 
that  meal  with  the  rosy,  kindly,  little  Bishop,  and  when 
it  was  at  length  over,  and  his  Lordship  had  hurried 
away,  as  Hardy  knew,  for  something  to  eat  elsewhere,  he 
turned  to  his  wife,  and  deliberately  said  the  first  word  of 
reproach  he  had  ever  uttered  to  her. 

"  You  might  at  least  have  seen  that  the  eggs  were 
fresh." 

Sinking  down  on  the  stairs  she  burst  into  helpless, 
plaintive  tears.  "  Oh,  King,  I  know!  Do  you  think  I 
don 't  know  ?  It  is  my  fault  and  yet  I  can 't  help  it.  If  I 
were  different  from  what  I  am,  I  could  bear  things  bet 
ter  ;  but  I  have  no  strength,  no  energy.  It  would  be  bet 
ter  if  I  should  die.  I  am  of  no  use  to  anybody,  and  you 
are  ashamed  of  me." 

He  looked  at  her  with  cold  eyes.  It  was  true.  He 
was  ashamed  of  her;  he  was  ashamed  of  their  children; 
he  felt  within  him  such  an  unexpected  capacity  for 
cruelty  that  he  dared  not  speak  for  a  minute. 

"  If  you  were  only  kind  to  me  I  could  bear  it,"  she 
went  on,  sobbing  still ;  ' '  but  you  are  not.  Why  did  you 
take  the  money  away  from  me?  I  could  have  done  so 
much  with  it.  If  we  are  poor  as  beggars,  why  not  own 
to  it,  and  accept  the  alms  people  offer  us?  " 

' '  Be  still.  You  are  my  wife  and  I  am  your  master. 
92 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

I  am  not  a  beggar  and  I  will  starve,  and  starve  you  and 
the  children — as  well  as  the  Bishop —  '  he  broke  off 
with  a  fierce  laugh,  "  before  I  will  accept  charity.  Do 
not  forget  that." 

Without  pausing  he  turned  and  went  into  his  study, 
locking  the  door  behind  him. 

It  was  only  a  few  days  before  Christmas,  and  a  num 
ber  of  letters  lay  awaiting  him.  Mechanically  he  read 
them,  taking  notes  of  their  contents;  answering  one  or 
two.  The  events  of  the  day  had  upset  him  to  a  degree 
that  he  fully  recognized  as  inexcusable ;  he  was  perfectly 
pitiless  to  his  own  weakness,  and  while  he  worked  the 
feeling  of  self-loathing  rose  stronger  and  stronger. 
Other  men  had  burdens  and  bore  them.  His  were  break 
ing  him  down.  He  had  lost  his  temper  and  spoken 
cruelly  to  his  wife,  who,  however  incapable  she  might  be, 
was  at  least  as  brave  as  he,  and  who,  moreover,  rarely 
complained.  A  few  clays  ago,  he,  a  clergyman,  had  not 
only  taken  too  much  wine,  but,  enjoying  the  dulling  of 
painful,  enhancing  of  pleasant  sensations  it  brought  him, 
had  deliberately  drunk  more. 

He  had  written  in  the  form  of  a  novel,  the  shameful 
story  of  his  own  life,  and  was  trying  to  sell  it — and  it 
was  also  the  shameful  story  of  a  woman  he  had  loved — 
for  money.  With  a  little  ejaculation  of  angry  disgust, 
he  finished  his  work,  and  rising,  took  up  his  hat.  After 
a  sharp  struggle  with  himself  he  went  upstairs  and  into 
his  wife's  room.  "  Abby,"  he  began,  in  the  studiously 
gentle  voice,  "  I  have  come  to  beg  your  pardon,  my 
dear." 

93 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

"  Oh,  King!  "  she  spoke  in  a  high  whisper,  for  the 
baby  was  asleep  in  her  arms. 

"  I  was  very  unkind  to  you  a  little  while  ago,"  he 
went  on,  "  and  I  am  sorry." 

' '  You  are  so  good,  King !  I  was  impatient,  too,  and 
I  know  how  awful  it  is  to  be  so — discontented —  I  often 
am  now.  We  have  so  much,  after  all,  haven't  we?  " 
Happy  in  his  words  and  kindness,  she  had  already  lost 
the  impression  his  harshness  had  made  on  her.  Above 
the  small  red  face  of  the  sleeping  child  her  worn  one 
smiled  up  at  him,  the  eyes  glassy  and  swollen,  the  thin 
lips  dry. 

Hardy  set  his  teeth  to  prevent  the  escape  of  a  groan. 
His  own  miserable  cowardice  showed  plainer  than  ever 
to  him,  compared  to  her  pitiful  little  courage.  "  God 
has  given  us  what  He  thought  wisest,  dear;  we  will  try 
to  be  happy."  Then,  kissing  her  and  the  baby,  he  went 
downstairs  and  into  the  cold  evening  air. 

It  is  hard  work,  trying  to  be  happy — possibly  not 
worth  while,  after  all.  Striving  for  virtue,  he  pon 
dered,  as  he  made  his  way  down  the  hill,  is  different; 
striving  for  strength ;  or  for  courage.  After  all,  happi 
ness  has  come  to  have  an  altogether  disproportionate  im 
portance  in  the  eyes  of  the  world.  He,  with  his  in 
stincts,  might  as  well  try  to  grow  a  foot  taller  as  to  be, 
in  his  circumstances,  a  happy  man.  Very  well.  God 
would  forgive  him  his  lapses,  and  help  him  to  be  a  good 
one. 

Without  seeing  her,  he  passed  Madame  Perez,  who 
was  getting  into  her  carriage  in  front  of  the  post-office 

94 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

in  Borrowdaile.  She  paused,  her  foot  on  the  step,  and 
looked  after  him.  "  What  a  curious  man  he  is,"  she 
thought,  "  and  how  near  being  a  most  interesting  one, 
poor  fellow."  As  she  passed  him  leaning  back  among 
her  furs,  she  repeated  aloud:  "pobrecido." 


95 


CHAPTER   XII 

"  WHEN  I  was  a  child,"  Madame  Perez  said,  after 
a  long  pause,  during  which  the  sound  of  Yarrow's  gen 
tle  movements  alone  broke  the  silence,  "  I  had  a  nurse 
who  used  to  tell  me  of  a  man  who  could  see  in  the  dark, 
and  the  thought  that  that  man  might  be  hidden  in  my 
room  watching  me  as  I  slept,  used  to  cause  me  untold 
terror 

Yarrow  laughed.  "  I  accept  the  hint.  It  is  rather 
dark,  but — come  and  look !  ' '  As  he  spoke  he  turned  on 
the  electric  light,  and  rising  with  a  little  groan  of  relief, 
she  came,  and,  standing  beside  him,  examined  the  prog 
ress  of  the  picture.  It  was  the  best  of  the  many  he  had 
painted  of  her,  and  something  of  its  charm  lay  in  the 
fact  that  it  was  painted  in  the  dusk.  He  had  caught  the 
glow  of  her  red  gown,  the  gleam  in  her  ruffled  hair,  as 
the  last  of  the  winter  daylight  lay  on  them,  and  there 
was  something  in  the  softness  of  the  picture  that  brought 
out  surprisingly  the  beauty  of  the  vivid  coloring. 

"  For  the  first  time  in  my  life,"  she  said,  at  length, 
"  I  feel  vain.  Am  I  really  like  that?  " 

' '  You  are  really  like  that.  You  are  the  most  beauti 
ful  woman  I  ever  saw." 

She  started.  "  You  said  that  just  as — my  husband 
96 


HE    AND    HECUBA 

used  to  say  it.  Such  a  world  of  mental  reservation  in 
your  voice !  ' ' 

"  Mental  reservation.  Possibly.  There  is  always 
that  when  a  man,  loving  one  woman,  praises  the  beauty 
of  another,"  he  answered,  slowly. 

"  And  sometimes  when  he  loves  the  one  he  is  prais 
ing.  My  husband  loved  me — for  a  time."  She  sat  down 
again,  her  eyes  fixed  absently  on  the  gray  square  that 
was  the  window. 

Yarrow,  watching  her,  felt  his  hand  go  out  instinct 
ively  towards  a  stump  of  charcoal  that  was  near  him. 
Long  as  he  had  known  her  and  profited  by  what  he 
knew  was  pure  kindness,  to  paint  her  a  dozen  times,  he 
had  never  seen  her  with  just  that  expression.  But  then, 
it  was  the  first  time  that  she  had  ever  mentioned  her. 
husband  to  him. 

' '  '  For  a  time  '  ?  "he  repeated,  very  gently. 

She  made  a  long-drawn,  inarticulate  sound  of  assent 
in  the  throat.  "  Yes.  For  a  time,  and  in  a  way.  I  was 
very  young.  I  am  only  five-and-twenty  now." 

The  light  fell  full  on  her  at  an  angle  that  threw  no 
shadows  on  her  face.  Her  head,  resting  against  a  gold- 
embroidered  pillow,  was  turned  a  little,  showing  the 
flower-like  curve  of  the  beautiful  chin  that  would  one 
day  be  too  fat.  Her  mouth  was  curved  into  a  new  look 
almost  of  pathos. 

Yarrow,  feeling  rather  guilty,  drew  a  drawing 
block  to  him,  set  it  silently  on  his  easel,  and  answered: 
' '  How  old  were  you  ?  ' ' 

"  When  I  married?  Just  seventeen.  Think  of  the 
97 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

folly  of  marrying  a  child  of  seventeen !  What  else  could 
he  expect?  " 

Yarrow,  who  hadn  't  the  least  idea  what  the  unknown 
man  in  question  had  got,  did  not  answer. 

"  'The  most  beautiful  woman  I  ever  saw.'  It  was 
so  like  him!  Shall  I  tell  you  about  it?  I  have  some 
times  thought  I  would  like  to  tell  you — that  I  ought  to. 
My  husband  is  not  dead,  Lord  Yarrow. ' ' 

Without  any  particular  reason,  Yarrow  had  taken 
this  for  granted,  but  he  could  hardly  say  so. 

"  He  was  unkind  to  you?  "  he  asked,  sketching  in 
the  blurred  mass  of  her  hair. 

"  No.  Oh,  no.  He  was  a  very  good  man,  I  believe. 
It  was  this  way.  I  was  at  Valparaiso,  visiting  an  aunt. 
There  was  a  balcony,  where  I  used  to  sit.  He  used  to 
pass  by.  He  was  very  handsome;  I  can  see  him  now* 
He  came  to  the  house  one  evening — it  was  a  dance — and 
asked  me  to  marry  him.  It  was  very  romantic  and  sud 
den.  He  was  not  rich,  and  my  father  refused.  Then 
I  used  to  drop  notes  to  him  from  the  balcony,  and  he 
used  to  give  me  the  answers  in  church.  It  was  very 
wrong,  and  very — amusing.  At  length  my  father  died 
suddenly,  and  my  mother  let  me  marry  him.  I  suppose 
to  get  rid  of  me.  I  was  very  troublesome."  She  told 
the  story  simply,  pausing  between  the  sentences,  her  eyes* 
still  fixed,  as  though  she  saw  again  the  old  days. 

Yarrow  worked  quickly.  In  a  few  minutes  he  would 
have  her  sketched  in,  and  it  would  be  the  best  of  all  his 
attempts.  ' '  And  then  ?  ' ' 

"  Oh,  we  were  happy  for  a  time.  I  loved  him  as 
98 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

much  as  a  child  of  seventeen  is  capable  of  loving.  Then 
I  found  that  I  was  beautiful,  and  I  used  to — coquetter. 
He  was  jealous,  I  suppose.  I  did  torment  him,  poor  fel 
low.  He  was  young,  too,  and  hadn't  an  idea  how  to 
manage  me.  There  was  no  one  in  particular — I  mean. 
I  didn  't  fall  in  love  with  any  one,  but  things  grew  worse 
and  worse,  and  at  last  I  went  back  to  my  mother.  She 
wasn  't  at  all  glad  to  have  me,  poor  soul. ' ' 

She  moved  suddenly  and  Yarrow  threw  down  the 
charcoal.  "  It  was  all  a  pity,"  he  said,  a  little  ab 
sently. 

' '  Yes.  I  hope  it  hasn  't  harmed  him  in  any  way.  It 
may  have,  of  course.  I  mean  if  he  wanted  to  marry  any 
one  else.  Luckily  I  myself  have  never  wanted  to  mar 
ry!  "  She  rose  and  shoved  the  long  pins  afresh  into  the 
hair  he  had  disarranged. 

' '  I  thought  I  'd  tell  you  this — you  have  been  so  very 
kind  and  hospitable  to  me.  Women  living  apart  from 
their  husbands  are  in  an  awkward  position,  but  I  have 
never  been  talked  about,  somehow." 

Yarrow  thought  that  he  knew  why.  Admiration,  like 
other  things,  can  pall,  and  she  must  have  had  more  than 
enough  of  it  to  suit  her,  for  she  was  not  at  all  vain. 

"  It  is  late,  and  I  must  go.  Will  you  tell  Lady  Yar 
row  I  am  sorry  she  is  not  well?  " 

"  Thanks,  it  is  only  a  headache." 

She  put  on  her  hat  and  long  fur  cape,  and  bade  him 
good-bye.  '  I  am  dining  here  to-morrow,  so  sans  adieu." 

The  corridor  was  still  unlighted,  and  as  she  left  the 
room  a  servant  passed  her,  followed  by  a  man  in  a  long 

99 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

ulster,  who  drew  aside  as  she  approached.  Bending  her 
head  in  its  big  plumed  hat,  in  acknowledgment  of  his 
courtesy,  she  swept  by,  to  stop  suddenly,  clutching  at 
the  wall  as  he  called,  on  reaching  the  room  she  had  just 
left,  ' '  Borrow,  dear  old  boy !  ' ' 

She  stood  for  a  minute  listening;  then  the  door 
closed,  and  she  went  on.  At  the  house  door  she  met  an 
other  man,  who  stopped  as  he  caught  sight  of  her  face. 
' '  For  God 's  sake, ' '  he  cried,  ' '  what  is  wrong  ?  ' ' 

She  caught  at  his  hand,  steadied  herself,  and  drew 
him  with  her  into  the  night. 

"  My  husband  is  in  there,"  she  whispered,  "  with 
Yarrow.  You  must  see  him  and  make  him  promise  not 
to  tell." 

"  Your  husband!  " 

"  Yes,  yes;  did  you  think  I  was  a  young  miss?  "  she 
returned,  impatiently.  "  Go.  You  must  see  him  some 
way  and  make  him  promise. ' ' 

"  I  don't  understand,"  said  Hardy,  drawing  his 
hand  from  hers.  "  Explain  to  me.  What  mustn't  he 
tell?  And  why  are  you  so  agitated?  There's  nothing 
to  be  ashamed  of  in  having  a  husband,  is  there  ?  ' ' 

She  drew  away  from  him  and  leaned  herself  against 
a  tree.  "  I've  just  been  telling  Yarrow  a  long  story  ex 
plaining — myself.  Lies  every  word  of  it.  Now,  do  you 
understand?  " 

Hardy  stood  immovable.  "  Lies.  Why  did  you 
lie?  " 

She  burst  into  a  harsh  laugh.  "  Are  you  an  idiot? 
Because  if  I  told  him  the  truth,  he  'd  have  put  me  out,  as 

100 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

— Woodvil  did.  Now  do  you  see?  Because  I  chose  to 
have  him,  Yarrow,  respect  me.  Because  I—  Now  have 
you  enough  reasons?  " 

' '  I  see.  And  I  am  to  intercede  for  you,  to  save  your 
name  with  these  people,  who  are  my  friends?  Why 
should  I  help  you  to  deceive  them;  what  are  you  to 
me?  " 

"  '  What's  he  to  Hecuba?  '  "  she  mocked,  "  '  or  Hec 
uba  to  him?  '  Bah!  You  have  suffered.  You  have  a 
remorse.  You  are  unhappy.  Be  a  man,  not  a  coward. ' ' 

Hardy  started  as  if  she  had  struck  him;  but  it  was 
not  the  word  coward  that  caused  it.  It  was  her  quota 
tion.  Did  she  know  ?  Could  she  know  ?  He  shook  him 
self  impatiently.  He  was  a  fool.  Of  course  it  was 
chance. 

"  The  room  is  full  of  the  studies  of  you,"  he  said,  at 
length.  "  He  will  have  recognized  them.  It  is  too 
late." 

In  the  gathering  darkness  she  took  him  again  by  the 
hand.  "  No.  They  have  all  but  one  been  sent  to  Lon 
don  to  be  framed.  And  that  one  is  on  the  easel — 
pushed  aside.  Let  us  look  in  at  the  window. ' ' 

Hand  in  hand  they  crossed  the  crisp  cold  grass  to 
the  side  of  the  house.  The  shutters  were  still  open,  and 
swung  round  on  its  swivel  towards  the  back  of  the  chair, 
the  portrait  looked  out  at  them.  Facing  them,  too,  stood 
the  man  who  had  come,  looking  down  at  the  invisible 
Yarrow.  A  short,  broad-shouldered  man,  with  a  hand 
some  dark  face,  thin  as  though  from  a  recent  illness,  one 
arm  in  a  sling.  He  was  talking ;  they  could  see  the  eager 

101 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

pleasure  in  his  face;  he  used  his  one  available  hand  in 
quick  gesticulation. 

' '  That  is  your  husband  1  ' '  Hardy  asked,  slowly. 

"Yes." 

"  And  he  doesn't  know  you  are  here?  " 

"  No." 

They  were  both  silent  for  a  few  minutes,  during 
which  they  watched  the  unconscious  man,  who  was  now 
walking  slowly  about  the  room,  as  he  talked. 

"  He  does  not  look  like  a  bad  man,"  Hardy  said,  at 
last. 

"He  is  good,  I  tell  you!  " 

"  You  still  love  him?  " 

She  turned  impatiently.  "  What  on  earth  is  the 
matter  with  you  1  You  talk  like  a  madman.  What  has 
that  to  do  with  it?  " 

Woodvil,  in  his  tour  about  the  room,  had  come  before 
the  portrait,  and  stood,  his  back  to  the  watchers,  in  a 
sudden  rigid  stillness.  In  a  few  seconds  he  turned  and 
they  saw  his  face. 

"  Now  it  is  too  late,"  the  woman  whispered.  "  He 
will  tell.  I  shall  be  disgraced,  and  you  do  not  care." 

"  He  is  not  going  to  tell — yet.  And  you  shall  not  be 
disgraced. ' ' 

Turning,  he  left  her,  standing  alone.  Her  hands 
clasped  tight  she  cowered  under  the  tree.  At  last  Hardy 
came  into  the  room.  She  saw  the  introduction,  the  hand 
shake,  the  preliminary  conversation.  Then  she  saw  the 
door  open  again  and  Lady  Yarrow  came  in.  The  arrival 
had  evidently  been  announced  to  her,  for  she  showed 

102 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

only  the  conventional  surprise  necessary  on  such  an 
occasion,  and  sitting  down,  the  conversation  became  gen 
eral  and  evidently  agreeably  animated.  At  length  Wood- 
vil  looked  at  his  watch,  asked  a  question,  and  they  all 
rose,  Yarrow's  long,  lean  hand  .appearing  to  the  watch 
ing  woman  from  the  black  mass  that  was  his  chair,  and 
touching  the  bell  by  him. 

They  were  going  to  dress  for  dinner.  The  servant 
who  came  in  answer  to  the  bell  helped  Yarrow  from  his 
chair.  Woodvil  watched  with  pain  in  his  set  face,  and 
then,  as  Mary  performed  some  trifling  service  for  her 
husband,  Rosalba  Woodvil  saw  Hardy  touch  Woodvil 
and  say  a  few  words  to  him  that  elicited  a  look  of  in 
quiry  ending  in  assent.  He  had  done  it. 

Shivering  with  excitement  she  stood  watching  as  they 
all  left  the  room,  her  own  face  being  the  only  one  look 
ing  at  her,  and  did  not  move  until  at  last  a  housemaid 
came  and  closed  the  shutters;  brutally,  it  seemed,  shut 
ting  her  out  into  the  cold. 

"  '  In  the  outer  darkness,'  "  she  said  aloud,  turning 
at  last  towards  the  avenue. 

An  hour  later  a  village  boy  brought  her  a  note. 

' '  He  is  going  away  to-night.    He  will  not  tell.    H. ' ' 


103 


CHAPTER   XIII 

MADAME  PEREZ  read  the  note  several  times,  and  then 
burned  it.  She  knew  the  two  men  with  whom  she  had  to 
deal,  and  she  knew,  though  one  of  them  must  hate  her, 
and  though  she  had  made  use  of  the  other  in  a  way  that 
would  probably  be  hard  for  him  to  forgive,  they  would 
both  keep  faith  with  her. 

This  curious  trust  in  honorable  men  by  women  who 
are,  themselves,  quite  unscrupulous,  is  a  curious 
thing,  but  it  exists,  and  it  was  hers.  She  drew  a 
deep  breath,  and  sitting  down  by  the  fire  slowly 
warmed  her  hands,  rubbing  them  softly  over  and  around 
each  other  with  a  sense  of  comfort  in  the  heat.  It  was 
nearly  seven.  In  a  few  minutes  they  would  be  dining 
at  Borrowdaile;  Jacques  Woodvil,  her  husband,  would 
be  sitting  there  between  her  friends,  and  for  her  sake, 
tacitly  lying  to  them.  A  little  pang  smote  her.  She  was 
sorry,  for  she  knew  his  horror  of  deceit.  It  had  caused 
much  unnecessary  trouble  between  them. 

"  A  note,  Madame — "  She  started  and  stared  up 
at  her  maid  with  something  like  fear  in  her  eyes.  ' '  A 
man  from  Borrowdaile  is  waiting  for  an  answer,  Ma 
dame." 

The  long,  gray  envelope,  with  the  white  coronet  was 
104 


HE    AND    HECUBA 

Lady  Yarrow's,  she  knew,  and  her  hands  shook  as  she 
tore  it  open.  It  contained,  however,  only  a  few  hurried 
words,  asking  her  to  dine  with  them  at  eight,  quite  in 
formally,  as  an  old  friend  of  Lord  Yarrow's  had  come 
unexpectedly,  and  they  wished  to  spare  him  the  horrors 
of  a  "  family  dinner." 

An  old  friend  of  Lord  Yarrow's!  She  smiled.  It 
would  be  very  amusing,  and  Jacques  would  keep  his 
word. 

'  Tell  the  man  to  say  I  shall  be  very  happy  to  come. " 

When  the  woman  had  gone  she  rose  and  taking  up  a 
small  Empire  mirror  that  lay  on  the  table,  looked  at  her 
self.  "  I  shall  wear  black,"  she  said,  aloud,  "  and  no 
jewels  at  all." 

The  only  vanity  she  felt  was  that  of  being,  in  her 
splendid  health,  superior  to  all  signs  of  the  very  real 
emotion  she  had  in  the  last  few  hours  been  through. 
Without  even  drinking  a  glass  of  wine  she  dressed  in  the 
plain  black,  lusterless  gown,  and  drove  off  in  her  snug 
brougham,  resplendent  in  her  brilliant  beauty,  and 
smiling  in  triumph  at  her  strength  of  nerves. 

A  thaw  had  come  after  Christmas,  but  the  last  few 
days  had  been  cold  again,  and  to-night  it  was  freezing 
hard  under  a  bright  moon.  As  the  carriage  went  up  the 
avenue  she  leaned  forward  and,  looking  out  to  the  right, 
smiled  at  something  she  saw  on  the  silvered  lawn.  It 
was  a  dark,  irregular  track  leading  to  the  space  beneath 
the  study  windows — her  and  Hardy's  footprints. 

As  she  took  off  her  cloak  she  noticed  the  maid  who 
helped  her  watching  her  with  such  evident  ecstatic  ad- 

105 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

miration  that  half  unconsciously  she  turned  and  looked 
at  herself  in  the  glass.  The  excitement,  the  love  of  the 
dramatic  to  be  so  amply  satisfied  in  the  next  few  minutes, 
had  brought  to  her  cheeks  a  splendid  color  that  caused 
her  intense  pleasure. 

"  I  never  looked  so  well,"  she  thought,  and  then, 
with  a  nod  to  the  woman,  went  to  the  drawing-room. 

Woodvil  stood  by  Lady  Yarrow  in  front  of  the  fire. 
He  looked  very  pale,  she  could  see,  and  his  arm  was  still 
in  the  sling,  but  he  was  evidently  unprepared  for  seeing 
her,  for  he  waited  unmoved  until  Lady  Yarrow  intro 
duced  him  to  "  Madame  Perez,"  and  then  bowing  low, 
murmured  some  conventional  politeness  that  answered 
every  purpose. 

"  I  think  I  saw  you  on  your  arrival,"  she  answered. 
"  You  came  late  this  afternoon?  " 

' '  Yes.    I  only  landed  yesterday. ' ' 

' '  From — ' '  she  had  nearly  said  ' '  from  South  Amer 
ica, "  but  something  in  his  face  warned  her,  and  she 
broke  off  short,  turning  her  pause  into  an  interrogatory 
one. 

"  From  Capetown." 

"  Mr.  Woodvil  has  been  in  South  Africa  for  two 
years,  Madame  Perez,"  Yarrow  informed  her  from  the 
corner,  where  she  had  not  seen  him,  and  then  dinner  was 
announced.  Mary  Yarrow  was  grateful  to  her  neighbor 
for  helping  her  out.  For  many  reasons  a  dinner  a  trois 
would  have  been  very  uncomfortable,  and  Madame  Perez 
being  a  perfect  stranger  to  Woodvil,  would,  she  thought, 
make  things  easier. 

10G 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

It  occurred  to  her  as  she  watched  Woodvil  's  ever  re 
curring  glances  at  his  vis-a-vis  that  her  design  had  been 
more  of  a  success  that  she  had  expected.  He  spoke  little 
directly  to  Madame  Perez,  but  he  seemed  to  be  keenly 
conscious  of  her  presence.  Years  ago  he  would  not  have 
noticed  another  woman  when  she,  Mary  Yarrow,  was  be 
side  him,  but  evidently  Time  and  Absence  had  done  their 
work. 

Lady  Yarrow's  devotion  to  her  invalid  husband  was 
well  known,  and  year  by  year  it  grew  stronger  and 
greater,  while  Woodvil  had  faded  to  a  memory  not 
altogether  painful.  His  coming  had  been  a  shock  to  her, 
but  chiefly  in  anticipating  its  effect  on  Yarrow.  Glanc 
ing  at  Yarrow  now,  she  smiled.  He  had  felt  no  shock,  it 
was  plainly  to  be  seen,  but  an  agreeable  one  of  pleasure. 
Mary  shrugged  her  shoulders  slightly.  Had  Yarrow 
known  her  better  than  she  had  herself?  And  Woodvil, 
too? 

An  oval  looking  glass  hung  opposite  her,  brilliantly 
lighted  by  small  clusters  of  electric  lights  in  the  shape 
of  roses.  Looking  past  Yarrow,  who  was  listening 
vaguely  to  some  anecdote  of  the  war  told  by  his  friend, 
she  saw  herself  rising  from  behind  a  mass  of  delicate 
greenery.  She  wore  white,  with  the  Yarrow  pearls 
around  her  long  neck. 

She  was  a  handsome  woman,  somewhat  pale,  perhaps, 
and  beside  Madame  Perez's  magnificent  proportions,  a 
little  too  slight.  She  realized  with  relief  that  she  had 
not  gone  off  since  the  old  days — those  five  days  long  ago, 
when  she  had  learned  to  know  Jacques  Woodvil,  and 
8  107 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

they  had  loved  each  other  and  said  good-bye.  It  was 
rather  absurd.  The  good-bye  had  been  very  tragic  to 
them  both,  and  here  he  was  in  her  house  calmly  eating 
his  dinner  and  flirting  with  another  woman. 

Yes,  he  certainly  was  flirting  with  Madame  Perez. 

"  Mr.  Woodvil — "  she  began  suddenly. 

Madame  Perez  was  a  woman  with  a  past,  a  woman 
who  had  lied  when  lying  suited  her,  and  who  lived  a  life 
of  selfishness. 

Lady  Yarrow  was  a  woman  of  high  principles,  of  ab 
solute  truthfulness,  and  of,  in  the  one  way  that  counts 
for  a  woman,  a  perfectly  clean  record. 

Yet  when  Woodvil,  responding  to  his  hostess,  turned  to 
her,  Lady  Yarrow  did  something  that  the  other  woman, 
either  from  kindness  or  indolence,  would  have  shrunk 
from.  She  opened  her  wide  blue  eyes  at  the  man,  hold 
ing  his,  and  forcing  him  by  the  magnetism  of  her  gaze, 
to  realize  something  that  he  himself  had  hardly  believed 
to  be  still  true. 

Woodvil  did  not  start,  and  he  betrayed  himself  only 
to  her  who  had  forced  him  to  it,  but  when  she  had  asked 
him  some  trifling  question  in  which,  with  a  smile,  she  in 
cluded  her  husband,  his  appetite  had  gone,  leaving  him 
feeling  a  little  giddy. 

At  length,  dinner  over,  he  had  the  chance  of  speak 
ing  to  Madame  Perez. 

Yarrow,  tired  by  the  excitement,  had  gone  into  the 
study  to  rest  for  a  few  minutes,  and  Lady  Yarrow  was 
called  out  of  the  room  by  a  telegram  requiring  an  imme 
diate  answer. 

108 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

' '  You  must  go  away  from  this  place, ' '  Woodvil  said, 
without  preliminaries.  "  I  won't  have  you  deceiving 
them." 

"  You  promised  not  to  tell,  and  I  shall  stay.  I  am 
doing  no  harm — Jacques." 

"  That  may  be,  but  you  are  here  under  false  pre 
tenses.  ' ' 

"  Those  of  being  an  honest  woman,  you  mean." 

"  Yes,"  he  returned,  doggedly,  stirring  a  log  with 
his  foot. 

"  Let  me  stay." 

"  No." 

It  was  characteristic  that  she  took  instinctively,  after 
the  first  burst  of  defiance,  the  humble  tone  of  Southern 
women  towards  their  husbands.  Also,  that  alone  with 
him  as  she  was,  she  made  not  the  least  effort  to  influence 
him  by  her  beauty.  There  was  humility  in  her  voice  but 
no  cajolery. 

"  Since  then,  Jacques,  I  have  done  nothing." 

' '  Once  is  always.  You  are  not  fit  to  be  in  Lady  Yar 
row  's  house." 

He  was  not  a  hard  man,  and  had,  since  he  had  left 
her  many  years  ago,  often  thought  of  her  with  pity.  It  is 
also  possible  that  Lady  Yarrow's  momentary  relapse  at 
dinner  had,  by  reminding  him  so  vividly  of  other  days, 
made  him  more  cruel  than  he  would  otherwise  have  been. 

"  I  am  going  to-night,"  he  went  on,  in  Spanish. 
"  Your  friend,  the  parson,  is  sending  me  a  telegram — 
I  can't  stay  here  now — and  you  must  go,  too.  I  will  give 
you  a  week.  Do  you  understand?  " 

109 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

11  If  I  don't  go?  " 

"  Bah,  you'll  go,"  he  answered,  contemptuously,  as 
Lady  Yarrow  came  back. 

' '  We  are  besieged  with  telegrams  this  evening, ' '  she 
said,  laughing.  "  Here's  one  for  you,  and  Borrow 
hopes  you'll  come  to  him  in  half  an  hour." 

She  had  been  full  of  repentance  since  dinner,  and 
her  vanity  satisfied,  determined  never  to  do  it  again. 
Now,  however,  coming  back  to  the  drawing-room  she 
found  her  guests  talking  together  in  a  manner  so  en 
grossed,  that  what  in  old  days  had  been  her  besetting 
temptation,  stirred  again. 

"  Sing  something,"  Yarrow  had  said.  And  Yar 
row's  room  was  out  of  earshot. 

"  You  are  enjoying  speaking  Spanish,"  she  said, 
gently.  "  I  will  not  interrupt  you.  I  will  sing  a  lit 
tle."  Crossing  the  long  room  to  the  piano  she  opened 
the  keyboard,  and  sang. 

Woodvil,  surprised  by  what  he  felt  to  be  her  malice, 
could  not  understand.  What  had  he  done?  He  could 
not  talk  to  his  wife  while  she,  Mary,  was  singing  those 
songs.  He  rose  abruptly  and  going  to  a  window,  parted 
the  curtains  and  stood  looking  out. 

Lady  Yarrow  had  loved  him  once,  but  she  did  not 
love  him  now,  or  she  could  not  have  chosen  those  songs. 
When  at  last  she  began  very  softly  "  The  Night  has  a 
Thousand  Eyes  "  he  left  the  room  without  a  word. 

Mary  sang  the  song  through  without  turning. 

"  He  is  very  impolite,  Lord  Yarrow's  friend,"  ob 
served  Madame  Perez. 

110 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

"  Yes.    He  is  impolite." 

"  Borrowdaile,"  Woodvil  was  saying  just  then, 
"  I  've  got  to  go.  I  thought  I  could  stay,  and  God  knows 
I  wanted  to  see  you,  dear  old  man,  but  I  can't  stand  it." 

Yarrow  looked  up  at  him.  "  Poor  Jacques.  Is  it — 
still  Mary?  " 

"Yes.    It  is  still  Mary." 

Yarrow  held  his  two  thin  hands  out  to  his  friend. 

"  Then  go.  It  is  hard  that  it  should  have  been  just 
she,  but  we  can't  help  it." 

The  two  men  sat  talking  until  towards  dawn,  and 
then,  refusing  a  carriage,  the  younger  walked  off 
through  the  cold  darkness  to  the  station.  He  had  not 
seen  Lady  Yarrow  again,  and  he  had  not  even  thought 
of  the  other  woman. 

"  I  was  an  ass  to  come,"  he  said,  aloud,  pausing  to 
light  his  pipe.  And  after  a  second  or  so  he  added,  "  I'll 
accept  that  offer  of  Sim's,  after  all." 


Ill 


CHAPTER   XIV 

JANUARY  passed,  and  Hardy  did  not  see  Madame 
Perez  again.  Humiliated  by  having  unhesitatingly 
done  her  bidding  that  night  at  Borrowdaile,  filled  with 
anger  and  disgust  with  her,  he  had  avoided  her  with 
great  care,  not  even  going  to  Borrowdaile.  This  avoid 
ance  was  the  easier  for  the  reason  that  there  was  an  epi 
demic  of  malignant  measles  in  the  group  of  fishermen's 
cottages  that  formed  part  of  his  parish,  and  in  order  to 
be  of  use  to  the  fierce,  sullen  people  who  resented  all 
help  but  his,  he  had  arranged  with  Mr.  Dudley  to  have 
the  older  man's  curate  take  his  services  for  a  fortnight, 
and  had  gone  to  live  at  the  Point  for  that  time. 

These  people,  called  by  their  more  respectable  neigh 
bors  the  Pointers,  were  not  pleasant  people.  They  were 
dirty,  poverty-stricken  and  indolent;  given  to  very  bad 
language  and  worse  behavior.  From  the  first  year  of 
his  Rectorship,  however,  Hardy  had  devoted  himself 
peculiarly  to  them,  and  he  knew  that  they  were 
fond  of  him.  There  was  possibly  in  the  fact  of  his  own 
poverty  something  that  drew  him  nearer  to  them  than  if 
he  had  been  rich  and  prosperous,  and  his  unfailing  read 
iness  to  do  anything  in  his  power  to  help  them,  had  had 
its  effect.  There  was  a  rough  side  to  his  tongue  that  ap 
plied  without  hesitation  whenever  he  found  it  necessary, 

112 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

without  deference  to  muscle  or  reputation,  also  pleased 
the  dark-faced  Pointers,  and  when  the  epidemic  broke 
out,  and  Hardy  came,  with  a  small  box,  declaring  his 
intention  to  stay  and  help  fight  it  down,  there  were  no 
cries  of  surprise  betraying  enthusiasm,  but  rather  a 
murmur  of  satisfaction,  as  a  community,  at  its  own  lack 
of  astonishment,  and  a  buzz  of  serene  "  I  told  you  so- 
ism. ' ' 

The  Rector  lodged  with  an  old  woman,  voted  by  a 
gathering  of  prominent  Pointers  to  be  the  cleanest  in 
the  place,  and  lived  chiefly  on  bread  and  salted  fish. 

Tench  gave  him  the  necessary  directions,  he  chose 
one  or  two  women  and  a  boy  as  his  aids,  and  day  after 
day,  night  after  night,  worked  almost  unremittingly, 
fighting  the  disease,  and  burying  those  who  died  in  spite 
of  his  efforts. 

He  rose  the  cold  mornings  after  his  brief  sleep,  stiff 
and  tired,  to  work  until  late  at  night  bending  over  sick 
beds  in  filthy  huts,  full  of  evil  smells,  fighting  not  only 
the  disease,  but,  in  spite  of  his  popularity  as  a  man, 
much  opposition  as  a  nurse. 

"  What's  houses  built  for  if  they're  to  be  open  like 
out  of  doors?  "  was  a  question  which  was  triumphantly 
asked  him  on  all  sides,  as  he  labored  for  fresh  air.  And 
his  objection  to  the  bad  smells,  while  considered  as  per 
fectly  proper  if  a  trifle  absurd,  for  a  gentleman,  was 
met  with  outspoken  scorn  when  advanced  as  a  plea  for 
one  of  his  patients. 

"  Mother  don't  mind  the  smells;  she's  used  to  'em," 
he  was  told,  with  incontrovertible  truth. 

113 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

But  in  spite  of  these  and  many  other  drawbacks  and 
hardships  it  was  not  an  unhappy  time  for  the  man.  He 
was  too  busy  to  think,  and  his  hampering  moral  person 
ality  with  its  aches  and  throbs  was  at  rest.  He  had  for 
gotten  that  he  had  a  wound  in  his  conscience,  and  the 
wound  had  ceased  to  bleed.  The  rare  privilege  was  his 
of  changing  his  pain,  and  it  refreshed  him  as  fully  as 
most  of  us  have  at  one  time  or  other  imagined  it  would 
us,  could  it  be  ours. 

Gone  his  hours  of  struggle,  his  days  of  disgust,  his 
sleepless  nights  of  waking  nightmare,  the  hard  work  of 
self-set  task  rested  while  it  tired  him,  and  he  forgot  him 
self  in  others. 

One  night  in  February  as  he  was  going  home  very 
late,  he  noticed  something  in  the  air.  It  was  hardly  to 
be  called  a  fragrance,  for  there  was  a  potent  smell  of  fish 
at  the  Point  that  forbade  rivalry  in  that  line,  and  it  was 
hardly  a  change  of  temperature,  for  Hardy  shivered  as 
he  strode  up  the  narrow  street  in  his  worn  great-coat. 
There  was  a  faint  moon  riding  high,  and  tempted  by  the 
thought  of  the  light  on  the  water,  he  turned  to  the  right 
down  a  narrow  lane,  and  went  to  the  little  wharf. 

The  sea  was  quiet;  asleep,  it  seemed,  lapping  softly 
against  the  flimsy  pier.  Hardy,  fresh  from  the  hot  air 
of  a  sick  room,  took  off  his  hat  and  stood  looking  with 
contented  eyes  out  over  the  faintly  silvered  stretch  of 
gray  shadow. 

"  '  The  waters  of  the  Lord,  bless  ye  the  Lord !  '  "  he 
said,  aloud.  He  was  fond  of  the  phrase. 

He  was  tired  and  at  peace.  The  memory  of  his 
114 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

trouble,  self-created  and  self-inflicted,  he  realized, 
though  without  the  power  of  ignoring  them  on  that  ac 
count,  seemed  insignificant  and  afar.  The  feeling  of  his 
unimportance,  his  smallness,  the  shortness  of  his  life, 
came  over  him  consolingly.  For  the  time  he  was  one 
with  the  sea,  the  moon,  the  Great  Hush  of  God 's  Nature, 
and  looked  as  It  must,  on  the  petty  woes  of  petty  man. 

"God  forgive  me,"  he  went  on  half  aloud,  "  for  my 
ingratitude.  I  have  so  much  that  others  have  not.  I 
.have  the  love  of  a  good  woman.  I  have,  with  God's  help, 
saved  souls  for  Him.  I  have  given  men  to  the  nation. 
And  my  very  suffering  for  that  old  sin  is  a  blessing  to 
me,  as  it  shows  me,  in  spite  of  it,  not  wholly  bad. ' ' 

He  heard  the  strokes  of  his  church  clock  vibrating  as 
if  half  frozen  in  the  still  air.  It  was  one  o'clock.  With 
a  long  look  at  the  sea,  he  put  on  his  hat  and  started  in 
land.  He  had  not  been  so  near  happiness  for  months, 
and  accepted  it  gratefully,  but  unquestioningly  as  a 
child.  It  was  not  that  he  wTas  doing  his  duty  by  his  poor 
people;  he  did  his  outward  duty  always;  it  had  become 
routine  work,  and  exacted  no  self-command.  It  was  not 
that  anything  had  changed,  for  he  knew  that  when  he 
went  back  home  he  would  find  everything  just  as  he  had 
left  it,  if  not  a  little  the  worse  for  his  absence.  Nor  did 
he  attribute  his  mental  condition  to  any  emotional  cause, 
for  he  hardly  knew  himself  to  be  emotional,  and  more 
over  it  was  by  no  means  the  first  time  that  he  had  stood 
at  a  lonely  hour  watching  the  sea. 

In  spite  of  the  man's  morbidity,  his  introspection  and 
exaggerated  sensibility  in  many  directions,  there  was  in 

115 


HE    AND    HECUBA 

him  a  certain  straightforward  simplicity  that  led  him  to 
feel,  without  thinking  it  consciously,  that  his  good  mood 
came  direct  from  the  heart  of  God,  as  his  bad  ones  did 
from  the  devil.  Suddenly,  as  he  neared  the  little  house 
where  he  lodged,  he  stood  still.  The  feeling  in  the  air 
that  had  attracted  his  notice  before  grew  stronger. 
What  was  it?  With  a  little  groan  he  recognized  it.  It 
was  the  feeling  of  spring. 

The  cold  that  still  held  was  going  to  break  up,  and 
the  first  warm  days  were  coming ;  the  faint  spring  scents 
were  coming;  the  first  froth  of  green  on  the  trees  was 
coming;  first  primroses  were  coming.  Spring,  sweet, 
sad,  disquieting  time,  was  coming. 


116 


CHAPTER   XV 

EVERY  day  for  a  week  Madame  Perez  expected  a  let 
ter  from  Woodvil,  enforcing  his  command  to  leave.  She. 
was  a  woman  of  much  obstinacy  and  much  daring,  but 
she  was  too  indolent  to  keep  up  a  sustained  resistance 
to  a  will  stronger  than  her  own.  She  knew  that  if  he 
wrote  her  that  she  must  leave  Borrowdaile  instantly, 
she  would  go.  But  she  was  more  than  comfortable  where 
she  was;  she  liked  her  neighbors,  enjoyed  the  house  she 
had  made  so  characteristic  of  herself,  and  until  she  was 
obliged  by  a  fresh  command,  would  not  move.  If  she 
had  determined  to  create  a  scandal  by  claiming  Wood 
vil  for  her  husband,  his  wish  and  command  would  not 
have  deterred  her  for  an  instant,  her  dramatic  nerve 
being  strongly  developed;  but  there  was  nothing 
dramatic  in  doing  what  to  every  one  but  herself  and 
him  would  be  only  what  was  expected.  Staying  on  at 
Borrowdaile  would  in  that  case  lose  its  charm  of  quiet 
comfort,  and  give  no  excitement  in  return.  The  game 
was  decidedly  not  worth  the  candle,  for  after  all  her 
liking  the  place  was  merely  a  caprice,  and  was  sure  to 
die  a  natural  death  before  long.  If  she  went  away  now 
it  would  be  but  hastening  by  at  most  a  few  months  an 
inevitable  ultimate  act  of  her  own,  and  save  her  the 

117 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

trouble  of  fighting  for  something  about  which  her  feel 
ings  were  very  passive. 

So  she  shut  herself  up  at  home  for  a  week,  reading  a 
good  many  novels,  yawning  a  good  deal,  and  wondering 
why  the  expected  peremptory  letter  did  not  come. 

Lady  Yarrow  came  to  see  her  once,  and  brought  her 
a  message  from  her  husband.  "  He  has  begun  a  new 
sketch  of  you,  and  sits  and  stares  at  it  in  the  most  mel 
ancholy  way,"  Mary  said,  laughing.  "  Do  come  and 
let  him  work  a  little. ' ' 

"  Oh,  yes.  I  will  come,  but — I  may  go  away  any, 
day." 

"  Go  away?     Where?     And  why?  " 

Madame  Perez  laughed.  "  Why?  '  Whence  and 
whither,  who  knows?  '  Like  all  solitary  people  I  am 
very  capricious.  I  have  no  reason  in  particular,  but  I 
am  beginning  to  want  to  move  on.  And  then,  I  think  I 
am  beginning  to  want  clothes.  Probably  I  shall  turn  up 
in  Paris  before  long." 

Rather  to  her  own  surprise  Lady  Yarrow  was  sorry 
to  hear  this  bit  of  news.  Madame  Perez  had  proved  an 
agreeable  neighbor,  not  given  to  over-much  running  in 
unannounced,  yet  always  to  be  had  when  wanted,  and 
her  readiness  to  pose  for  the  unsatiable  Yarrow  had 
never  faltered. 

"  I  shall  miss  you,"  Lady  Yarrow  said.  "  It  has 
been  very  nice  having  you." 

Madame  Perez  smiled  at  her.  "  Thanks.  It  is  good 
of  you  to  say  so.  I  knew  you  would  not  mind  me;  I 
think  I  told  you  so ;  didn  't  I  ?  I  am  too  lazy  to  be  very 

118 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

troublesome.  By  the  way,  has  Lord  Yarrow  heard  from 
his  friend — the  queer  man  who  was  so  rude  when  you 
sang?  " 

Mary  shook  her  head.  "  No.  They  never  write 
often  to  each  other,  and  doubtless  Mr.  Woodvil  sailed  for 
India  Saturday.  He  had  an  offer  to  build  a  bridge 
somewhere  in  North  India,  and  accepted  it,  Yarrow 
thinks.  He  is  a  civil  engineer,  you  know." 

Madame  Perez  laughed.  "  I  should  have  said  an 
uncivil  one.  I  did  not  like  him,  Lord  Yarrow's  friend." 

"He  is  a  very  good  sort,  however,  and  was  probably, 
Yarrow  says,  upset  by  the  telegram  that  came  from  the 
firm  who  made  him  the  offer  about  the  bridge.  He  had 
to  decide  at  once,  and  he  had  just  got  back  to  Eng 
land." 

That  afternoon  Madame  Perez  went  for  a  walk,  and 
taking  a  steep  path  back  of  her  house,  came  out  on  the 
downs.  It  was  a  gray,  windy  day,  the  sea  being  tossed 
into  lumpy,  lusterless  waves  that,  breaking  on  the  rocks, 
made  a  sullen  noise. 

As  she  walked,  rather  hampered  by  her  long  skirts 
and  heavy  furs,  Madame  Perez  turned  over  in  her  mind 
the  events  of  the  last  week,  inspecting  them  carefully 
from  many  sides,  a  thing  that  gave  her  great  pleasure. 
She  wondered  whether  her  husband  really  had  sailed, 
and  considered  the  probability  of  his  sending  her  from 
India  the  order  she  only  half  dreaded.  He  had 
got  quickly  out  of  the  galley  as  was  his  wont,  and 
possibly  distance  would  soften  his  resentment  at  her 
daring  to  come  to  Borrowdaile  under  the  false  pretenses 

119 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

she  herself  had  so  crudely  named.  As  she  had  told  him 
she  had  only  the  one  thing  for  which  to  reproach  her 
self  and  as  far  as  that  was  concerned,  had  done  but  lit 
tle  self -flagellating  even  for  that.  It  seemed  now  that 
she  was  to  be  able  to  stop  on  at  Liscom  House,  but — 
would  she,  after  all?  It  was  dull,  and  Yarrow  was 
weaker,  so  that  little  by  little  he  would  be  lost  to  her  as 
a  resource.  Mary  Yarrow  she  admired  and  liked,  but 
they  had  nothing  in  common.  Hardy  she  had  frightened 
and  probably  disgusted  by  the  blunt  announcement  of 
the  situation  between  her  and  Woodvil.  The  mild 
amusement  he  had  afforded  her  was  over,  and  on  the 
whole  she  would  consider  Paris  in  the  near  future. 

She  had  passed  the  road  leading  to  the  church,  which 
lay  in  a  hollow,  sheltered  from  the  sea  winds  by  a  clump 
of  distorted  trees.  Before  her  extended  the  gray  downs ; 
above  her  the  sky,  gray,  too,  and  on  her  right  the  gray 
sea  broke  on  the  gray  rocks. 

Pausing  she  looked  down  at  the  breaking  waves.  A 
little  shiver  passed  over  her.  ' '  It  is  a  gray  life ;  a  terri 
ble,  dull,  futureless  life,  here,"  she  thought,  and  her 
imagination  flew  off  to  sunny  blue  seas  with  yellow  sands 
gleaming  in  the  sun. 

It  was  the  last  of  January.  Carnival  was  late  that 
year.  She  could  be  in  Nice  in  a  week.  The  Raratoffs 
were  there,  the  San  Cirillos,  the  Herbert  Motts —  She 
turned  on  hearing  footsteps,  and  came  face  to  face  with 
Hardy. 

He  started  back  as  he  saw  her,  and  withdrawing  to 
a  distance  of  a  few  yards,  hat  in  hand,  said : 

120 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

"  How  do  you  do,  Madame — Mrs.  Woodvil?  " 

"  Madame  Perez,  if  you  please.  Won't  you  shake 
hands  with  me?  " 

"  No.  I  am  in  quarantine.  I've  come  from  the  Point 
— that  group  of  houses  yonder.  They  have  black  mea 
sles  there,  and — 

"  And  you  are  taking  care  of  them.  I  know;  Lady 
Yarrow  told  me.  You  are  a  very  good  man,  Mr. 
Hardy." 

11  No.  I  am  not  a  good  man.  I  must  go  on.  I  have 
to  be  back  early." 

She  stopped  him  with  a  gesture.  "  Not  yet.  You 
must  let  me  thank  you  for — what  you  did  for  me  that 
night." 

"  I  don't  want  to  be  thanked." 

His  surprise  at  meeting  her  there  so  far  from  her 
house,  passing  away,  his  manner  was  tinged  by  his  dis 
like  of  her. 

A  slight  smile  came  into  her  eyes  as  she  watched  him. 
"  Are  you  sure  you  stand  there,  so  far  away,  for  fear 
you  might  injure  me?  Is  it  not  rather  that  you  fear  I 
might  injure  you  ?  ' ' 

"  In  fear  you  might  injure  me?  "  he  repeated. 
'  Yes.    That  I  might  corrupt  your  innocence." 

Hardy  winced.  It  was  very  disagreeable  to  him  to 
have  met  her,  and  he  had  hoped  to  escape  at  once,  with 
no  specific  reference  to  the  last  conversation.  This,  how 
ever,  was  evidently  not  to  be. 

"  I  am  not  innocent,"  he  said,  slowly.  "  And  I 
have  no  right  to  judge  you." 

121 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

Before  speaking  again  she  paused.  Among  her  qual 
ities  was  that  one,  essentially  Spanish,  of  serene  delib 
eration.  Her  face,  so  brilliant  in  coloring,  could  be  very 
immobile,  and  in  repose  was  absolutely  quiet.  He 
watched  her  with  some  curiosity  as  she  visibly  prepared 
her  answer  to  his  remark. 

"  You  despise  me,"  she  said,  at  length,  not  as  a 
question. 

"  No.     I  do  not  despise  you.    I  pity  you." 

' '  Ah !  I  desire  pity  no  more  than  I  deserve  scorn. 
What  is  pity  but  gentle  scorn  ?  We  pity  a  fallen  woman 
in  the  street,  and — draw  aside  to  let  her  pass.  Mentally, 
now,  you  draw  aside  to  let  pass — me!  " 

Hardy  could  not  deny  the  truth  of  what  she  said, 
and  was  silent.  Before  he  could  speak  she  had  gone  on, 
hastily,  stung  by  his  speechless  acknowledgment. 

"  And  for  what  are  years,  is  Time,  if  not  to  cure? 
They  say  the  whole  body  changes  every  seven  years — 
why  not,  then — the  soul?  If  I  was  bad  then,  I  may  be 
good  now.  And  it  wasn't  so  very  bad.  I  loved  him." 

"That  is  no  excuse,"  said  Hardy,  suddenly,  with  a 
stern  frown,  directed  far  more  at  himself  than  at  her. 
"  That  is  no  excuse  whatever.  Good  God,  there  is  no 
excuse.  It  is  done,  and  ended,  forgotten  by  most  peo 
ple,  but  it  is  not  for  you  to  forget  it.  That  is  God's  jus 
tice.  One  can  not  forget.  It  is  unforgettable  as  it  is 
unforgivable. ' ' 

She  stared  at  him  in  amazement.  His  face,  thin  and 
worn  from  his  hard  days  and  sleepless  nights,  was  burn 
ing  with  a  dull,  red  flush  that  seemed  centered  in  his 

122 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

eyes ;  his  voice  shook  with  strong  feeling  utterly  incom 
prehensible  to  the  woman  he  was  apparently  denounc 
ing. 

In  the  old  days  Padre  Ignacio  had  scolded  her, 
prayed  over  her,  admonished  her,  but  that  had  been  the 
voice  of  the  Church,  conscientious,  measured,  not  unen- 
couraging.  This  was  a  man  who  seemed  personally  to 
hate  her  for  the  sin  she  had  so  easily  and  so  long  ago 
forgiven  herself.  There  was  something  in  his  voice  that 
stirred  in  its  vehemence,  depths  either  long  asleep,  or 
never  before  existent,  in  her  complicatedly  simple  nature. 

"  '  Unforgettable  and  unforgivable,'  "  she  repeated, 
at  length.  "  You  think  that?  " 

' '  I  know.  And  I  know  that  in  your  breast  you  know 
it,  too.  That  you  lie  awake  at  night  seeing  it  over  and 
over  again,  the  first  days,  half  innocent,  the  struggle,  the 
ceding — then  the  despair.  You  can  not  forget.  God 
help  you.  You  can  not." 

The  knowledge  that  these  things  were  not,  that  she 
had  for  years  hardly  remembered  what  to  her  was  be 
come  a  mere  unlucky  incident  of  her  youth,  brought 
with  it  a  new  feeling  that  was  curiously  like  shame.  This 
man,  in  whose  rough,  rather  unsympathetic  goodness  she 
believed,  attributed  to  her  feelings  she  had  not.  There 
fore  she  was  wanting ;  therefore  she  blushed. 

"  You  are  very  good,  Mr.  Hardy.  But — you  are 
hard.  You  ask — all  that — because  you  can  not  under 
stand. "  Forgetting  his  having  come  from  the  Point,  she 
drew  near,  looking  at  him  with  eyes  that  glowed  in  the 
gloom. 

9  123 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

"  I  am  not  hard.    I  pity  you." 

"  You  pity  from  a  height,  then.  As  Christ  may 
have  pitied." 

Hardy  started,  the  red  died  from  his  face,  leaving  it 
white  and  stern. 

' '  Hush !  Do  not  say  that.  I  do  not  pity  you  in  that 
way.  I  have  no  right  to.  I  pity  you  with  no  Christ-like 
compassion,  for — your  sin  is  my  sin,  and — there  is  blood 
on  my  hands." 

His  voice  was  harsh  with  the  pain  of  telling  this 
woman  this  thing.  He  knew  it  was  an  unnecessary  hu 
miliation,  but  his  conscience,  touched  on  the  raw  by  her 
words,  forced  him  to  the  agony  of  the  avowal.  When 
he  had  ceased  speaking,  he  stood  half  unconscious  for 
a  second,  until  she  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm,  her  eyes 
full  of  tears  of  pity  for  him. 

' '  This,  then,  is  your  secret, ' '  she  said. 

''Yes." 

"  And  you  have  told  me.  A  woman  whom  you  do 
not  respect.  A\rhy?  " 

"  Ah,  why!  I  could  not  let  you  think  me  a  good 
man. ' ' 

Without  another  word  she  turned  and  left  him. 

He  had  let  her  call  herself  a  woman  whom  he  did 
not  respect,  and  on  seeing  his  agony  over  his  own  old 
fall,  she  for  the  first  time  realized  what  she  seemed  to 
him,  a  man  whom  she  did  respect. 


124 


CHAPTER   XVI 

IT  was  raining  softly  the  day  Hardy  came  home  after 
his  quarantine.  On  a  hill  a  man  was  plowing,  and  the 
smell  of  the  damp,  fresh-turned  earth  reached  him; 
there  was  a  film  of  green  on  the  larches,  other  trees  were 
bourgeoning,  and  in  a  hollow  he  found  a  primrose. 

He  stopped  at  one  or  two  houses  in  the  village,  and 
was  amused  at  the  lack  of  approval  his  late  doing  met 
there. 

Carbury  hadn't  had  an  epidemic  since  '71,  and 
plainly  looked  on  them  as  evidences  of  a  very  low  moral 
atmosphere. 

It  was  also  not  pleasing  to  Carbury  that  old  Mrs. 
Kite  had  been  obliged  to  submit  to  burial  by  the  Bor- 
rowdaile  curate.  In  a  word,  Carbury  regarded  its  Rec 
tor  as  having  been  gadding,  and  disappeared. 

As  he  left  the  village  behind  him,  Hardy  met  Lady 
Yarrow  driving  herself  in  a  dog-cart,  and  turning,  she 
insisted  on  taking  him  home. 

"  You've  been  catching  it,"  Her  Ladyship  began 
at  once,  as  he  sat  down  beside  her.  "  They've  led  poor 
Mr.  Bates  a  dog's  life,  comparing  his  many  failings  to 
your  correspondingly  abundant  virtues,  but  I  knew 
that  wouldn't  prevent  their  having  it  in  for  you,  too." 

125 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

"  Yes,  they  were  rather  short  with  me,  most  of 
'em.  But  the  Pointers  are  my  people  as  much  as  the 
Carburyites,  and  the  Pointers  needed  me  the  more. 
What  could  I  do?" 

Lady  Yarrow  turned,  her  eyes  laughing  under  her 
wet  sailor-hat.  "Do?  Surely  you  only  did  what  any 
sensible  father  of  seven  would  have  done  at  such  a 
time !  You  fall  short  of  your  obvious  duty  only  in  not 
catching  the  measles  and  bringing  it  home  to  your 
children  as  a  gift." 

Hardy  was  silent  for  a  moment.  "  You  mean  that 
it  was  far-fetched?"  he  asked  in  a  slightly  irritated 
voice. 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  I  did  mean  that,  among  a  few  other 
things  that  I'll  not  mention.  But  then,  I  am  hope 
lessly  commonplace,  and  if  I  have  any  wings  at  all  they 
are  too  bedraggled  in  earth's  mud  to  be  available  for 
flights.  Yarrow  thought  you  quite  sublime,  but  I  con 
fess  my  sympathies  were  with  your  wife." 

"  There  are  two  sides  to  every  question,  and  Abby 
was  of  course  a  little  nervous — that  was  her  share.  Be 
sides,  measles  are  not  dangerous — if  properly  nursed." 

"  Oh,  but  they  are.  Did  you  know  that  poor 
Madame  Perez  has  them — it — and  has  been  exceedingly 
ill?" 

' '  Madame  Perez !  ' ' 

"  Yes.  The  doctor — she  has  Burroughs — sent  for 
a  London  man,  she  was  so  bad,  poor  thing,  and  she  may 
have  to  be  in  a  dark  room  for  weeks." 

Hardy  stared  without  speaking  at  the  brown,  foam- 
126 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

ing  waters  rushing  towards  the  little  bridge  they 
were  passing.  "  How — did  she  catch  it?  "  he  said  at 
length. 

"  She  had  no  idea;  she  was  perfectly  well  until  one 
evening  she  dined  with  us,  and  had  a  chill  after  dinner. 
I  've  not  seen  her,  as  Yarrow  has  never  had  the  measles, 
but  I  've  seen  the  doctor,  and  he  says  it  has  been  a  quite 
unusually  severe  attack." 

Hardy  said  nothing.  It  was  of  course  extremely 
improbable  that  she  could  have  caught  the  disease  from 
him  in  the  minutes  she  had  stood  by  him  in  the  open 
air,  but  the  conviction  had  him  nevertheless  in  its  grip, 
and  made  him  wretched.  When  he  spoke  again,  it  was 
to  mutter  a  few  conventional  words  about  his  being 
very  sorry,  and  hoping  Madame  Perez  would  soon  be 
quite  well. 

They  reached  the  gate,  sagging  a  little  lower,  he 
noticed,  than  when  he  had  left,  and  thanking  Mary, 
he  went  slowly  up  the  muddy  path,  from  where  the 
gravel  had  long  since  mysteriously  disappeared. 

The  children  were  waiting  for  him  upstairs  in  the 
room  in  which  he  found  his  wife  in  bed,  and  the  wel 
come  was  boisterous. 

He  kissed  them  all  around,  answered  their  ques 
tions,  asked  a  few  about  their  lessons,  their  games,  etc., 
and  then,  as  soon  as  possible,  sent  most  of  them  out 
of  the  room  and  sat  down  by  his  wife's  bed. 

She  had  fallen  and  hurt  her  side  a  few  days  before, 
and  the  doctor  made  her  stay  in  bed.  The  noise  of 
the  children  had  made  her  tired,  and  in  a  rather  queru- 

127 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

lous  way  she  told  the  little  chronicle  of  the  time  of  his 
absence. 

Algy  had  nearly  cut  his  hand  off  with  his  pocket 
knife ;  Harold  had  had  the  croup — she  had  written  that 
— and  MacDougall's  throat  had  been  bad  again.  The 
new  baby,  the  "  Little,  little  Baby,"  the  other  children 
called  it,  was  very  ailing — Katie  had  had  her  tooth  out 
after  days  of  wailing  expectancy,  but  the  ache  had 
remained;  she  had  learnt  a  very  good  kind  of  rice- 
pudding  out  of  a  housekeeping  paper  lent  her  by  Miss 
Tench;  she  had  been  obliged  to  get  a  pair  of  shoes  for 
Anna;  mutton  had  gone  up  two  pence,  but  eggs  were 
a  penny  cheaper. 

Hardy  listened  drearily.  He  was  tired  out  and 
needed  a  rest,  instead  of  which  he  had — this. 

"  Katie  says  the  coals  are  nearly  out,"  went  on  the 
thin  voice  from  the  crumpled  pillows. 

Hardy  rose.  "  I'll  order  some,"  he  said,  bending 
and  kissing  her.  "  Are  you  glad  to  have  me  home  again, 
dear?  " 

11  Oh,  yes,  King.  Of  course  I  am.  It  did  seem  so 
useless,  your  going,  though." 

"  By  God's  help  it  wasn't  useless,"  he  returned,  un 
consciously  a  little  stern. 

"  Of  course  you  helped  them,  but  you  may  have 
brought  it  back  with  you,  King!  " 

"  The  doctor  said  I  could  come,  dear.  I  have  been  in 
quarantine,  you  know.  Now  I  must  go  downstairs. 
Good-bye." 

Katie  had  lit  his  lamp,  and  it  was  so  warm  that  he 
128 


HE    AND    HECUBA 

needed  no  fire.  All  the  misery  of  the  little  room  seemed 
to  rise  up  and  cry  out  to  him  as  he  entered  it. 

There  was  to  be  beefsteak  for  dinner,  he  noticed,  as 
the  kitchen  door  opened.  He  wished  with  an  almost 
frantic  longing  that  he  might  once  sit  down  to  a  meal 
the  items  of  which  he  should  not  know  beforehand. 
Staring  at  the  torn  rug,  which  had  a  new  hole  burned 
into  it,  he  remembered  the  delicious,  restful  colors  of  the 
rug  in  the  Red  Room  at  Liscom  House.  Then  the 
thought  of  Madame  Perez  came  to  add  its  note  to  his 
despair. 

"  Weak  fool  that  I  am!  "  he  told  himself,  impa 
tiently.  Other  men  rose  superior  to  their  surroundings. 
He  alone  could  not.  Possibly  he  was  going  mad.  He  hated 
himself  for  his  lack  of  will  power.  The  reaction  from 
his  rather  exalted  mood  had  come,  and  he,  the  chip  on 
the  water,  was  tossed  back  to  that  rock  from  which  the 
work  at  the  Point  had  floated  him. 

"  And  now  that  poor  woman  is  ill,"  he  thought, 
"  and  even  that  is  my  fault." 

He  recalled  her  sudden  movement  of  compassion,  the 
tears  in  her  eyes  as  she  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm  when 
he  had  told  her  his  secret.  She  had  understood  him; 
she  had  been  sorry  for  him.  They  wrere  fellow  sinners. 
They  needed  each  other.  He  had  spoken  harshly  to  her, 
flagellating  himself  by  his  words,  but  she  could  not 
know  that,  and  yet  she  had  forgiven  him  so  gently. 
Even  now,  full  of  softened  pity  for  her  as  he  thought 
of  her  ill  and  alone,  his  rigid  conscience  did  not  attempt 
to  condone  her.  She  was  a  woman  who  had  sinned,  but 

129 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

she  was  a  woman  who  pitied  his  hideous  misery,  and  who 
wras  alone. 

Suddenly  the  disgust  of  his  surroundings  and  him 
self  rose  to  such  a  height  that  he  with  difficulty  re 
strained  a  cry.  Terrified  by  this  sign  of  his  own  weak 
ness  he  caught  up  his  hat  and  went  out  into  the  garden. 
Walking  up  and  down  the  springy  grass,  disregarding 
the  now  fast-falling  rain,  he  tried  to  force  his  mind  into 
the  state  of  comparative  contentment  that  had  been  his 
of  late.  For  he  attributed  all  moods  and  caprices  of 
memory  to  the  mind.  Of  temperament  he  thought  lit 
tle.  He  was  discontented  with  his  lot,  and  even  though 
he  admitted  that  that  lot  was  a  hard  one,  he  counted 
himself  wicked  in  that  he  was  not  satisfied  with  it.  His 
conscience,  rigid  as  iron,  waged  war  unending  with  his 
nervous,  sensitive,  half-starved  temperament,  and  con 
stantly  lost  battles  through  the  very  instability  of  its 
adversary. 

There  was  a  light  in  his  wife's  window.  "  Poor 
Abby !  "  he  thought,  forcing  himself  to  a  tender  thought 
of  her.  Then  he  turned  and,  facing  the  other  way,  an 
other  light  came  to  his  sight.  "  She  has  no  light,  poor 
woman,"  his  thoughts  went  rapidly  on.  "  She  is  there 
in  a  darkened  room,  face  to  face  with  her  past,  smarting 
with  my  hard  words." 

Without  really  forming  a  plan  to  go  to  Liscom  House 
he  left  the  garden,  and  went  down  the  hill.  It  rained 
very  hard;  the  mud  quashed  under  his  feet,  splashing 
his  ankles.  He  did  not  notice  it ;  moving  was  better  than 
standing  still,  and  the  farther  he  could  go,  the  better. 

130 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

The  butler  looked  very  much  surprised  when  Hardy 's 
ring  brought  him  from  his  cozy  quarters  below  stairs,  to 
the  door. 

"  Madame  Perez  is  better,  thank  you,  sir.  Yes,  it 
'as  been  pretty  bad,  sir.  She  is  h'up  a  little  every  day 
now,  but — yes,  no  light  is  allowed  in  the  room,  sir." 

Brooks  smelt  of  hot  buttered  toast  and  tea.  He 
looked  warm  and  comfortable.  Hardy  left  his  compli 
ments  and  best  wishes  for  the  invalid,  and  went  back 
through  the  rain.  As  he  passed  the  post-office  the  letter- 
carrier  came  out. 

11  Oh,  Mr.  Hardy,"  the  man  called  out,  and  then 
gave  him  a  letter.  "  I  was  just  a-goin'  up  to  the  house, 
sir,  but  it 's  such  a  wet  night  I  takes  the  liberty- 
Hardy  took  the  letter  and  went  on  home.  When  he 
reached  the  study  he  put  on  his  slippers  and  the  dress 
ing-gown  and  sat  down  at  his  table.  The  letter  was  wet, 
for  he  had  forgotten  to  put  it  in  his  pocket.  Pulling  off 
the  envelope,  he  drew  the  lamp  towards  him  and  read  it. 

His  book  was  accepted,  the  publishers  offering  him 
a  large  sum  down  for  the  English  rights,  and  a  gen 
erous  percentage  on  sale. 

Sinking  deep  into  the  springless  chair  as  if  he  had 
no  spine,  Hardy  buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  tears  trick 
ling  through  his  fingers. 


131 


CHAPTER   XVII 

A  FEW  days  after  the  acceptance  of  his  book  Hardy 
was  called  downstairs  from  his  wife's  room  by  Katie. 
"  It's  a — a  woman,  sir,"  the  girl  told  him,  her  bare 
floury  arms  rolled  in  her  apron.  "  I  don't  know  who 
she  is,  an'  'er  H 'English  is  something  ridic 'lous. ' ' 

Hardy  went  into  the  study  and  found  Amelie,  Ma 
dame  Perez's  maid,  standing  by  the  window. 

"  A  letter,  sir,"  she  began  promptly.  "  Madame 
told  me  to  give  it  only  to  you  in  person. ' ' 

Hardy  took  the  long,  narrow  envelope  and  opened  it. 
"  Tell  Madame  Perez  that  I  will  come,"  he  said. 

The  woman  gone,  he  sat  down  and  read  the  note 
again.  It  was  written  in  pencil  in  curiously  large,  strag 
gling  characters  like  those  of  a  child,  and  merely  said, 
without  any  formal  beginning :  ' '  Will  you  come  to  see 
me  this  afternoon  ?  I  need  help  about  my  husband. 

"  R.  P." 

Hardy  had  been  at  home  nearly  a  fortnight,  and 
though  he  had  twice  inquired  at  her  door  for  the  sick 
woman  he  had  not  asked  to  see  her,  and  beyond  a  few 
words  from  Mary  Yarrow,  whom  he  met  in  the  village, 
had  heard  no  news  of  her.  Lady  Yarrow,  moreover, 
had  not  seen  Madame  Perez,  so  her  news,  such  as  it  was, 

132 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

was  second  hand.  The  measles  had  taken  their  usual 
course,  and  the  patient  was  progressing  favorably  ex 
cept  for  her  eyes,  which  seemed  peculiarly  sensitive  to 
light,  so  that  she  was  still  in  a  darkened  room. 

Hardy  had  not  lost  his  feeling  of  guilt  about  the  ill 
ness,  though  he  recognized  its  unreasonableness,  and  the 
thought  of  the  poor  woman  shut  up  alone  with  her  mem 
ories  was  very  sore  to  him.  But  he  had  been  unusually 
busy  making  up  arrears  of  work  and  had  also  been  away 
from  home  again.  A  few  days  after  he  had  received  the 
letter  from  the  publishers  in  London,  he  had  been  called 
to  the  death-bed  of  his  only  relative,  a  maternal  aunt, 
and  as  the  old  woman  rallied  after  his  arrival,  only  to 
sink  again  just  as  he  was  preparing  to  leave,  he  was 
away  for  five  days,  an  absence  during  which  his  paro 
chial  duties  again  accumulated. 

Mrs.  Merrick,  it  was  found  on  the  opening  of  the 
will,  had  left  her  small  fortune  to  Hardy,  and  he  went 
home  the  richer  by  about  £100  per  annum.  When  he  at 
length  reached  home  he  found  his  wife  again  ill,  and  to 
his  relief  she  did  not  ask  the  amount  of  the  legacy,  mere 
ly  turning  her  face  away  to  hide  the  tears  that  rolled 
from  her  closed  eyes. 

'  May  I  have  another  maid,  King?  "  she  asked,  at 
length,  when  she  could  speak.  "  You  will  see  how  much 
I  could  do  with  some  one  to  help  me." 

Hardy  laid  his  hand  on  her  hot  forehead,  pushing 
back  the  scanty  hair  tenderly.  "  Yes,  dear.  You  shall 
have  a  maid,  and — we'll  begin  by  treating  the  children 
to  a  new  pair  of  boots  all  round." 

133 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

' '  Anna  needs  flannel  petticoats  more,  and  poor  Mac- 
Dougall's  great-coat  is  a  sight!  " 

Hardy  winced,  but  nodded.  "  You  shall  choose 
yourself,  dear.  But  one  thing  I  am  choosing  for  you — a 
new  gown.  It  will  have  to  be  black,  of  course,  but  it 
shall  be  nice  soft,  hairy  stuff,  like — like  a  red  one  of 
Madame  Perez " 

This  was  all  a  week  in  the  past,  now,  and  as  he  sat 
rereading  the  note,  the  new  maid,  under  whose  uncouth 
energy  the  house  had  already  taken  on  a  tidier  air,  was 
washing  the  dining-room  windows.  Hardy  watched  her 
red  hand  fly  over  the  soapy  glass  with  a  feeling  of  de 
light.  His  study  windows  were  to  be  washed  next.  The 
rug  before  the  empty  fireplace  was  darned,  a  rough  sur 
face  of  gray  yarn  that  showed  no  great  artistic  talent 
on  the  part  of  the  worker,  but  as  he  looked  at  it,  his  eyes 
filled  with  tears.  Yesterday  he  had  found  Abby  sitting 
on  the  floor,  patiently  working  the  needle  in  and 
out  of  the  worn  fabric,  and  he  remembered  the  pride 
with  which  she  had  smiled  up  at  him.  He  had  noticed 
other  little  things,  too ;  a  patch  in  his  dressing-gown ;  a 
new,  particularly  inconvenient  arrangement  of  his  few 
books ;  a  new  shade  on  his  lamp.  He  was  an  observant 
man  in  some  ways,  and  all  these  little  indications 
touched  him  deeply. 

Once  there  was  a  lemon-souffle  for  dinner.  "  This 
is  delightful,  Abby, ' '  he  exclaimed,  warmly,  meeting  her 
expectant  eyes.  "  I  am  sure  you  made  it  yourself!  " 

"  Yes,  I  did.  I  thought  we  could  afford  it  for  once, 
now — and  you  were  always  so  fond  of  it. ' ' 

134 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

One  day  he  took  the  three  elder  boys  to  Sabley-on- 
Sea  and  fitted  them  out  with  cheap,  ready-made  clothes. 
When  they  came  home  he  produced  a  box  of  chocolates 
and  three  bottles  of  cocoa-wine  for  his  wife. 

Not  one,  not  even  Tench,  had  dared  mention  his  in 
crease  of  income  to  him,  and  he  was  glad,  for  his  book 
had  brought  him  a  big  lump  sum,  which  he  was  carefully 
spending,  and  questions  as  to  the  amount  of  the  legacy, 
which  was  supposed  to  account  for  his  entire  increase  of 
income,  would  have  forced  him  to  a  direct  lie. 

He  realized  with  grim  amusement  the  inconsistency 
of  his  dread  of  this  possible  falsehood  with  the  lie  his 
life  had  become.  One  curious  result  of  his  suppressed 
life  had  been  the  slow  development  of  a  sense  of  humor 
that  had  been  lacking  in  his  earlier  years.  Between  his 
attacks  of  remorse  and  self-loathing  came  days  when  he 
watched  himself  and  his  feelings  with  a  strange  detach 
ment  of  sympathy,  as  if  he  had  been  another  man. 

The  morning  of  Madame  Perez's  message  was  one  of 
these  times,  and  standing  mentally  aloof  from  his  own 
personality,  Hardy  had  been  studying  himself  with  an 
amusement  that  brought  grim  lines  about  his  mouth  and 
a  rather  unclerical  light  to  his  gray  eyes.  He  saw  his 
satisfaction  in  his  wife's  change,  the  improvement  of  the 
children  and  the  state  of  his  whole  household,  in  some 
thing  very  near  its  real  light.  His  selfish  content  min 
gling  with  the  better  happiness  of  seeing  others  happy, 
was  perfectly  plain  to  him,  and  also  the  care  with  which 
he  cultivated  the  feelings  that  excused,  to  a  certain  ex 
tent,  his  position. 

135 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

As  he  walked  up  the  avenue  to  Liscom  House  an 
hour  later,  his  eyes  rested  on  the  pleasant  evidence  of 
spring  on  grass  and  bough,  he  smiled  at  himself  as  he 
had  done  many  a  time  before. 

"  After  all  the  mental  pain  that  has  been  sent  me  as 
a  discipline,"  he  told  himself,  "  I  am  a  good  deal  of  a 
boy  still." 

That  he  could  see  this  was  much,  but  he  did  not  be 
gin  to  realize  the  truth  of  his  own  words,  as  so  often  hap 
pens. 

Madame  Perez's  butler  led  him  for  the  first  time  up 
the  broad  stairs,  down  a  long  corridor  hung  with  very 
ugly  Georgian  portraits,  and  then,  without  knocking, 
opened  a  door  to  the  left. 

Hardy  stood  still  for  a  second,  trying  to  accustom 
his  eyes  to  the  darkness,  and  then,  as  the  door  closed  be 
hind  him,  took  a  step  forward.  As  he  did  so,  a  soft 
hand  slipped  into  his,  and  Madame  Perez's  voice,  broken 
by  a  little  amused  laugh,  said:  "  Let  me  lead  you — I 
am  used  to  it,  and  you  come  from  the  sunlight. ' ' 

Presently  he  found  himself  sitting  in  a  low  chair, 
near  the  chaise-lounge,  on  which  he  could  just  make  out 
the  white  figure  of  his  hostess.  The  darkness,  the  un 
known  room,  the  memory  of  his  last  interview  with  her, 
kept  him  dumb  for  a  few  seconds,  and  then,  awkwardly, 
he  managed  to  find  a  few  words  of  condolence  for  her  ill 
ness  and  hopes  for  her  speedy  complete  recovery. 

She  laughed,  his  embarrassment  amusing  her.  ' '  Ah, 
yes.  It  is — they  are — how  does  one  say?  a  very  tire 
some  illness,  but  this  with  the  eyes  is  the  worst. ' ' 

136 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

"  It  must,  indeed,  be  tiresome." 

She,  used  to  the  darkness,  could  see  that  he  was  sit 
ting  very  stiffly  erect  in  his  low  chair,  his  big,  square 
shoulders  outlined  against  the  pale,  golden  plush.  She 
watched  him  in  silence  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then, 
jerking  a  pillow  lower  settled  herself  comfortably  and 
began. 

"  It  is  very  kind  of  you  to  come,  Mr.  Hardy.  I — I 
have  several  letters  from — my  husband  and  I  am  not 
allowed  to  read  them.  You,  being  the  only  person  who 
— knows — must  read  and  answer  them  for  me." 

"  Is  there  no  one  else?  " 

"  No.  I  have  put  off  asking  you,  as  I  knew  you'd 
hate  doing  it,  but — they  must  be  answered." 

He  hesitated.  They  were  both  thinking  of  that  last 
talk  on  the  downs,  he  trying  to  find  pity  for  her,  she 
reading  his  mind  with  curious  ease. 

"  I  know  you  despise  me,"  she  went  on,  at  length,  a 
faint  note  of  bitterness  in  her  voice,  "  but  I  think  you 
will  help  me." 

He  rose.  "  Yes,  I  will  help  you.  If  you  will  give 
me  the  letters  I  will  read  them  and  come  to-morrow,  if 
it  suits  you,  to  tell  you — 

' '  No,  no.  Here  they  are.  Go  into  the  next  room  and 
read  them,  and  tell  me  now  what  he  says.  Then  yon 
can  answer  at  once.  Paper  and  everything  are  ready 
there.  Come,  let  me  lead  you." 

Again  she  slipped  her  smooth  hand  into  his  and  led 
him  across  the  room,  the  soft  silk  of  her  flowing  gown 
rustling  faintly  as  she  walked.  There  was  a  delicate  per- 

137 


HE    AND   HECUBA 

fume  about  her;  he  did  not  know  what  it  was,  but  he 
liked  it. 

"  There  is  the  door.  Now  please  wait  until  I  have 
turned. ' ' 

He  obeyed  her,  and  then,  opening  the  door,  went  into 
the  next  room. 

When  he  came  back  she  was  waiting  for  him,  and, 
once  more  perfectly  blind  from  the  sudden  transition 
from  daylight  to  darkness,  he  followed  helplessly.  As 
he  reached  his  chair  he  stumbled  on  her  long  gown  and 
nearly  fell.  "  I  have  torn  it!  "he  cried,  as  she  steadied 
him  with  both  hands. 

' '  Never  mind.    Tell  me.    What  does  he  say  ?  ' ' 

"  He  says  that — that  you  must  go  away  from  here." 

"  I  know — I  know — but  is  that  all,  in  the  three  let 
ters?  " 

Hardy  hesitated.  "  It  is  the  substance  of  all  three, 
though  the  last  two  are — very  peremptory.  He  had  not 
known  of  your  illness,  of  course " 

"No.    Where  is  he?" 

' '  In  London.  Shall  I  write  him  that  you  have  been 
ill?  " 

She  sank  down  among  her  pillows,  and  for  a  few  min 
utes  did  not  answer.  Then  he  heard  her  laughing  softly, 
as  if  under  her  breath. 

"  He  is  such  a — a  prig!  And  it  gives  him  such  a 
satisfaction  to  make  me  obey!  Well — please  write  that 
I  refuse  absolutely  to  go.  That  I  like  being  here.  That 
I  have  made  friends  and  shall  stay.  How  surprised  he 
will  be!  " 

138 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

"  I  think  you  ought  to  obey  him,"  Hardy  said, 
stiffly. 

' '  Of  course  you  do.  Do  you  not  see  that  your  think 
ing  so  is  one  thing  that  determines  me  not  to?" 

"  No.  I  don't  see  that  I  have  anything  whatever  to 
do  with  it." 

"  Oh,  but  you  have!  I  have  been  shut  up  here  so 
long;  it  has  been  so  dull;  I  must  have  a  little  amuse 
ment  now,  and  you  amuse  me !  ' ''  She  clapped  her  hands 
softly  together  with  a  little  tinkle  of  rings  and  brace 
lets. 

It  was  a  sudden  freak;  two  minutes  before  she  had 
had  no  intention  of  teasing  him,  but  his  uncompromis 
ing  stiffness,  his  evidently  unchanged  opinion  of  her, 
goaded  her  into  mischief. 

"  If  I  amuse  you — so  much  the  better  for  you.  But 
I  am  rather  in  a  hurry.  Kindly  tell  me  what  answer  I 
am  to  write,  Mrs.  Woodvil." 

"  Very  well.  '  The  good  Samaritan  writing  for  the 
poor  sinner :  Greetings  to  the  nine-tailed  Bashaw !  The 
poor  sinner  refuses  to  obey ;  the  nine-tailed  Bashaw  may 
— go  hang!  '  She  burst  out  laughing,  as  he  rose  an 
grily. 

"  If  you  have  nothing  serious  to  tell  me,  you  would 
have  done  better  not  to  have  sent  for  me,"  he  said, 
evenly.  "  I  am  a  busy  man  and  have  no  time  for — 

She  rose,  too,  and  stood  looking  at  him. 

"  No  time  for  what?  Is  it  quarreling,  this?  Or — • 
trifling?  " 

"  It  is  nonsense,"  he  said,  roughly,  "  and  a  kind  for 
10  139 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

which  I  have  no  taste.  You  owe  obedience  to  your  hus 
band.  Obey  him." 

Laying  her  hand  on  his  arm,  she  answered,  with  a 
complete  change  of  voice:  "  You  are  right.  Forgive 
me.  Will  you  write  and  tell  him  that — I  will  go  as  soon 
as  the  doctor  allows  me.  And — I  am  sorry  I  was  dis 
agreeable — and  I  thank  you  for  coming." 

He  stooped  and  took  up  his  hat.  "  I  will  write  at 
once — this  afternoon.  I  have  an  engagement  now,  and 
must  go.  Good-by." 

When  he  came  out  again  into  the  sun,  he  stood  a 
moment  looking  around  him  with  wrinkled  eyelids,  and 
then,  taking  off  the  hat  he  had  just  put  on,  walked 
quickly  down  the  spongy  driveway.  It  had  been  a  cu 
rious  experience.  She  was  a  strange  woman. 


140 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

THERE  was  a  garden  at  Borrowdaile  House  that  Lady 
Yarrow,  on  her  arrival  there  as  a  bride,  had  at  once  ap 
propriated  as  her  very  own.  It  was  a  walled  garden,  of 
course,  for  where  is  the  charm  of  a  garden  in  which  one 
can  not  be  alone,  free  from  the  curious  eyes  of  the  rest 
of  the  world? — and  the  wall  was  itself  a  thing  of  great 
beauty. 

Built  long  ago  of  red  sandstone,  Time  had  softened 
and  faded  its  hue  to  a  mellow  pink,  crumbling  the  soft 
stone  to  a  generous  softness  for  the  roots  of  moss  and 
tiny  plants ;  around  the  top  of  it  ran  a  series  of  medal 
lions,  in  each  of  which  grinned  or  frowned  a  wonderful 
face,  each  one  different,  but  all  cleverly  carved,  and  all 
grotesque.  Over  the  faint  arabesque  of  moss  that  crept 
over  the  rich  surface  of  the  wall,  clune*  and  swung  fes 
toons  of  roses,  ivy  and  quaint  old  creepers  for  which 
the  gardener  had  no  name,  but  Lady  Yarrow,  then  Lady 
Borrowdaile,  on  first  discovering  the  faces  had  ruthlessly 
cut  and  bent  away  from  them  the  encroaching  tangle  of 
branches,  until  now,  after  five  years  of  time  in  which 
they  had  become  accustomed  to  the  new  thraldom,  they 
curled  themselves  like  living  picture  frames  about  the 
grinning  or  frowning  faces  that  looked  like  devils  or 
satyrs  crowned  with  beauty. 

141 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

The  pride  of  the  enclosure,  however,  was  a  giant 
jessamine  that  was  planted  to  the  left  of  the  door  lead 
ing  from  the  house  into  it,  and  hung,  splendid  with  scent 
and  rich  with  a  wealth  of  blossom  over  that  door,  and 
down  on  the  blind  wall  high  up  which  it  had  climbed. 
It  had  been  brought  home  by  the  Lord  Yarrow  of  Queen 
Anne 's  time,  and  there  was  a  legend  attached  to  it. 

This  young  Yarrow,  a  few  months  after  he  had 
with  his  own  hands  planted  the  jessamine  in  the  little 
walled  garden,  brought  home  his  bride;  and  from  the 
first  time  she  stepped  from  the  door  into  the  sunlit  en 
closure  at  dusk,  she,  too,  had  loved  the  jessamine,  and 
used  to  wear  sprays  of  the  starry  blossoms  in  her 
hair. 

Through  the  long  warm  evenings  the  two  young 
people  used  to  sit  there,  planning  and  hoping  and  loving 
each  other.  Then  at  last  when  winter  had  come  and 
gone,  and  the  jessamine  was  again  in  flower,  Lord  Yar 
row  used  to  come  often  alone,  or  with  his  lady  leaning 
on  his  arm. 

One  evening  they  sat  late  under  the  stars,  and  she 
broke  a  long  spray  of  the  flowers  and  wove  herself  a 
crown  out  of  them.  The  next  morning  Yarrow  noticed 
a  branch  hanging  dark  and  dank,  as  though  frost-bitten. 
It  was  in  summer,  there  had  been  no  frost,  but  the 
branch  was  dead,  and,  calling  a  gardener,  he  had  it  cut 
away.  That  evening  the  little  Lord  Borrowdaile  was 
born,  and  lived  only  a  few  hours. 

Later  the  same  thing  happened  again,  and  shortly 
after  a  new  Yarrow  came,  bringing  his  bride.  It  was 

142 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

winter  when  her  first  child  was  born  and  died,  and  the 
jassamine  was  banked  with  straw  and  fir  branches,  but 
Lord  Yarrow,  who  knew  the  story,  already  growing  to 
be  a  superstition,  uncovered  it,  and  found,  as  he  had  half 
expected,  a  branch  of  it  sapless  and  dead.  When  the  son 
was  born  who  carried  on  the  name,  the  jessamine  in  full 
pride  of  its  first  bloom,  waved  living  tendrils  trium 
phantly,  each  leaf  a  glossy  green — and  so  it  went  on. 

Once,  in  the  reign  of  the  second  George,  a  Yarrow, 
who  had  inherited  from  his  mother  a  hot  head  and  a 
lack  of  reflection,  rooted  the  plant  up  and  burned  it  in 
his  rage  at  the  death  of  his  heir  and  his  wife.  When  he 
came  back  from  the  Continent,  years  after,  he  found  the 
jessamine  flourishing  again  and  full  of  flowers.  He  had 
failed  in  his  intention  of  destroying  it,  and  his  nephew 
blessed  its  greenness  on  four  occasions. 

George,  Lord  Borrowdaile,  had  said  nothing  to  his 
young  wife  of  the  legend,  and  did  not  even  mention  to 
her  the  existence  of  this  little  garden  until  she  found  it 
out  by  accident  one  day,  and  took  immediate  possession 
of  it.  It  was  on  the  side  of  the  house  that  was  shady  in 
the  summer  afternoons,  and  the  old  trees  just  outside  it 
deepened  the  shadow  and  thickened  the  dark  grass 
which  formed  the  middle,  in  the  center  of  which  stood 
an  old  sun-dial  that  had  grown  in  the  course  of  years 
to  be  quite  useless  after  twelve  noon.  In  the  four  cor 
ners  grew  masses  of  old-fashioned  roses,  and  none  of 
these  things  had  been  changed. 

Lady  Yarrow  loved  sitting  in  the  shadow  on  a  long 
chair,  watching  the  sunlight  fade  from  the  wall,  and  the 

143 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

shadows  lengthen.    "When  there  was  a  wind  she  enjoyed 
the  tossing  of  the  trees  outside  and  the  quiet  within. 

And  the  jessamine  was  the  joy  of  her  heart,  though 
her  husband,  giving  no  reason,  had  asked  her  not  to 
wear  the  white  blossoms  as  she  had  once  done. 

When  the  baby  was  born  she  was  so  ill  that  no  one  in 
the  house  thought  of  the  jessamine,  and  it  was  only  on 
the  evening  of  the  day  when  the  poor  little  Borrowdaile 
died  that  Lord  Yarrow  wandered  out  into  the  garden, 
and,  half-unconsciously,  looked  at  it.  He  was  not  in  the 
least  a  superstitious  man,  but  at  the  sight  of  a  long 
branch  of  jessamine  hanging  limp  and  dark  he  shivered 
slightly.  It  was,  of  course,  mere  chance,  but  it  was  un 
deniably  uncanny,  and — there  in  the  darkened  room  lay 
his  poor  little  son.  As  he  stood  in  the  dusk,  holding  the 
blighted  branch  in  his  hand,  a  scurrying,  creeping  noise 
behind  him  attracted  his  attention,  and  he  turned  to  see 
the  head  and  shoulders  of  one  of  the  under-gardeners 
appearing  over  the  wall. 

"  What  are  you  after?  "  he  asked  sharply,  as  the 
man,  having  drawn  himself  to  the  top  of  the  wall, 
paused  for  breath. 

"  Oh,  my  Lord!— I " 

Yarrow  insisted. 

"  It  was  just,  my  Lord,  to  see  if — if  what  they  all 
says  is  true — about  the  jessamine — I  am  very  sorry,  my 
Lord " 

Yarrow  called  him  down,  and  then  in  a  few  words 
told  him  to  cut  the  dead  branch  away,  and  showed  him 
how  to  pull  dowTn  a  blooming  one  to  hide  the  scar. 

144 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

"  My  son  is  dead,  Hammond,"  he  said,  gently,  while 
the  man  worked,  "  and  the  branch  of  jessamine  is  dead, 
too.  It  is  quite  impossible  that  the  one  fact  should  be 
the  cause  of  the  other,  but — I  want  no  talk  about  it. 
You  understand?  " 

"  Yes,  my  Lord." 

"  I  have  not  scolded  you  for  your — curiosity.  You 
will  do  me  the  favor  of  not  mentioning  what  you  have 
seen.  Now  give  me  that,  and  go." 

The  gate  being  locked,  the  man  again  scaled  the  wall, 
and  Yarrow,  going  into  the  house,  lit  a  fire  in  his  study, 
and  sat  by  it  while  the  flames  vanquished  the  dead 
branch. 

Mary  Yarrow  had  never  heard  the  story.  Years 
had  passed  since  then,  and  one  day  now  late  in  March 
Mr.  Dudley,  coming  to  see  him,  found  Lord  Yarrow 
in  a  wheel-chair,  a  plaid  over  his  knees,  a  cap  on 
his  head. 

"  Where  on  earth  are  you  going,  George?  "  the  old 
man  asked.  "  It  is  raw  and  cold  outside." 

Yarrow  looked  up  at  him  with  a  peculiarly  sweet 
smile  that  seemed  to  begin  in  his  hollow  eyes. 

' '  Dear  Uncle  Charles,  I  am  so  happy  to-day !  ' ' 

Mr.  Dudley  was  conscious  of  a  movement  of  impa 
tient  irritation.  His  heart  was  aching  and  throbbing  at 
the  changes  in  his  nephew's  face,  and  his  nephew  had 
the  cruelty  to  be  happy. 

Yarrow  watched  him  for  a  minute,  and  then  under 
stood.  Reaching  out  he  took  the  Rector's  hand  in  both 
his  and  held  it  close.  "  You  remember  the  famous  jes- 

145 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

samine?  Well — I  am  going  out  to  say  a  prayer  to  it. 
It  must  be  very  good  to  us  this  year." 

"  Borrow!  "  Mr.  Dudley  dropped  his  hat  and 
stepped  on  it  unheeding. 

11  Yes.  I  am  very  happy,  Uncle  Charles.  She  only 
told  me  an  hour  ago.  It  seems  too  good  to  be  true,  and 
— I  must  placate  that  wretched  jessamine." 

"  I'd  dig  around  its  roots  and  look  for  worms  if  I 
were  you.  You  surely  don't  believe  that  rubbishy 
story?  " 

Yarrow  laughed  as  the  servant  came  in  and  prepared 
to  wheel  him  into  the  corridor. 

' '  It  is  rubbish,  no  doubt,  but — I  believe  in  it. ' ' 

The  Kector  picked  up  his  hat  and  trotted  over  the 
marble  floor  beside  the  chair. 

' '  So  I  do, ' '  he  admitted,  ' '  but  don 't  you  ever  give  it 
away  to  Rebecca.  She'd  be  most  awfully  indignant 
with  me !  ' ' 

In  the  garden,  when  the  servant  left  the  two  men 
alone,  it  was  sunny  and  still,  though  the  tossing  of  the 
trees  above  the  wall  indicated  that  it  was  windy  in  less 
sheltered  places.  The  grass  was  already  very  green,  and 
near  the  sun-dial  the  crocuses  shivered. 

The  jessamine,  untouched  all  winter,  had  just  been 
divested  of  its  coverings,  and  clipped  a  little  here  and 
there.  "  It  looks  like  a  convict,"  Yarrow  said.  "  Isn't 
it  curious,  the  way  it  has  been — going  on — all  these 
years  ?  All  the  unlucky  beggars  who  have  seen  it  blight 
ed  in  that  way  have  taken  good  care  to  make  a  note  of  it 
— so  I  have  documentary  evidence  of  the  truth  of  the 

146 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

story."  He  hesitated,  and  then  in  a  low  voice  told  the 
incident  of  his  own  discovery  at  the  time  of  little  Bor- 
rowdaile's  birth  and  death. 

The  Rector  listened  in  silence,  his  mobile  face  glow 
ing  with  interest,  his  childlike  blue  eyes  wet. 

"  Mary  doesn't  know,  does  she?  " 

"No.  There  was  no  use,  and — ah,  if  only  I  can  last 
till  then.  I  have  a  feeling  that  only  I  can  keep  the  vil 
lainous  jessamine  in  order." 

' '  Last  till  then  ?    Don 't,  Borrow !  ' ' 

Yarrow  laughed  gently.  "  Don't  last?  I  probably 
shan't,  dear  old  man.  I'm  getting  steadily  worse, 
though  I  don't  think  Mary  has  noticed.  She  mustn't, 
for  it  would  distress  her." 

The  Rector  wiped  his  eyes.  "  Distress  her!  I 
should  think  it  would.  Are  you  sure  things  are  so 
bad?  " 

Yarrow  hesitated,  his  brown  eyes  resting  lovingly  on 
the  old  man 's  face.  ' '  Yes,  I  am  sure.  Only — you  won 't 
think  me  a  muff  for  saying  that  I  don't  consider  it  very 
lad?  " 

' '  You  never  were  a  muff  in  your  life. ' ' 

A  far-off  gardener  was  whistling  over  his  work;  the 
two  men  paused  and  listened.  "  It's  that  young  chap, 
Hammond,  who  is  to  marry  little  Alice,"  Yarrow  went 
on,  absently. 

"  Yes.  She  is  a  nice  little  lass.  I  hope  they'll  be 
happy." 

Yarrow  paused  a  minute  and  then  went  on,  his  thin 
hands  loosely  clasped  on  the  plaid.  ' '  I  mean  that  after 

147 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

all,  my  dying  isn't  such  a  very  bad  thing.  I  was  born 
patient — it  is  a  poor  little  ha'penny  virtue,  and  proba 
bly  given  to  me  as  a  compensation  for  other  things.  At 
all  events  I've  never  done  any  very  vigorous  kicking, 
but  I  've  been  tired  of  it  very  often.  And,  of  course,  as 
I  grow  weaker  I  grow  tireder.  I  look  forward  with 
great  calm  to — the  last  of  it,  Uncle  Charles. ' ' 

The  Rector  nodded.    He  could  do  no  more. 

"  Mary  has  been  an  angel,"  continued  the  speaker, 
without  looking  at  him.  "  I  loved  her  for  years  before 
she  would  have  me,  but  when  she  did  at  length  make  up 
her  mind  to  put  up  with  me,  she  did  it  in  earnest.  She 
has  developed  wonderfully  in  some  ways." 

"  She  loves  you  dearly,  George,"  the  Rector  inter 
rupted,  suddenly,  straightening  up  on  his  bench,  and 
putting  his  handkerchief  in  his  pocket  with  an  air  of 
decision. 

4 '  '  Dearly !  '  She  doesn  't  love  me  at  all,  you  wicked 
old  man,  and  you  know  it!  "  Yarrow  smiled  at  him 
with  perfect  serenity  as  he  spoke. 

Under  the  wrinkles  on  the  Rector's  face  crept  a  slow 
blush.  He  had  lied,  and  he  was  caught.  The  two  facts 
were  too  much  for  him.  He  sat  like  a  culprit,  his  wet 
eyes  raised  appealingly. 

"  Mary  is  very  fond  of  me;  she  likes  me;  we  are,  I 
think,  absolutely  in  sympathy  with  each  other;  and  she 
has  been  happy  with  me — in  a  way.  But  I  may  tell  you, 
on  an  occasion  such  as  this,  that  years  ago  she  loved  an 
other  man,  and  once  is  always  with  her.  Now,  I'm  no 

148 


HE    AND    HECUBA 

hero,  God  knows,  and  if  I'd  been — as  other  men  are — • 
I'd  have  fought  with  that  memory,  and  I'd  have  won. 
But  I'm  not  as  other  men  are,  and  there  was  no  use. 
So  I've  taken  what  she  could  give,  and  God  knows  I've 
been  grateful.  She  has  made  me  very  happy.  Very." 
He  broke  off  and  reaching  out,  passed  his  hand  absently 
across  the  mesh  of  jessamine  branches  near  him. 

"I'm  telling  you  all  this  because  some  one  ought  to 
know.  When  I'm  dead  I  hope — I  mean  this — I  hope 
that  the  other  man  can  manage — I  should,  in  his 
place — he  is  married  to  a  good-for-nothing  \voman  and 
has  every  reason  for  divorcing  her — he's  a  good  sort, 
and  my  friend,  and  I  want  them  to  be  happy.  If  the 
question  ever  should  come  up,  Uncle  Charles,  she'll  turn 
to  you.  Make  them  see  that  too  much  resignation  is 
weakness.  I  've  thought  it  all  out,  and  I  believe  that  the 
God  who  was  the  God  of  the  Old  Testament,  likes  people 
to  help  themselves.  Likes  a  certain  amount  of — fight, 
in  short!  " 

Charles  Dudley  sat  in  silence  for  a  few  minutes.  The 
gardener's  whistling  grew  nearer  and  passed;  the  sta 
ble  clock  struck  twelve. 

At  length  the  old  man  rose.  "  Well,  God  bless  you, 
Borrow.  I  understand,  and  I'll  do  my  best.  I  quite 
agree  with  you.  And — I  am  sure  that  you  will  be  per 
mitted  to  see  your  son." 

Hurriedly  shaking  hands  with  his  nephew  he  opened 
the  door  and  went  into  the  house.  Yarrow  sat  for  some 
time  without  moving. 

149 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

He  was  a  very  truthful  man  and  had  meant  all  that 
he  said.  It  was  not  hard  for  him  to  contemplate  the 
Death  face  to  face  with  which  he  had  stood  most  of  his 
life.  He  was  tired;  and  now — he  looked  at  the  leafless 
jessamine  with  a  smile.  "  It  must  be  a  boy,  you 
wretch!  "  he  said,  half  aloud. 


150 


C  PI  AFTER   XIX 

"  HE  and  Hecuba  "  appeared  early  in  April.  It  was 
a  success.  The  kind  of  success  that  fills  the  papers 
with  discussions  as  well  as  with  criticisms.  Some  critics 
considered  it  a  wonderful  book ;  others  a  mere  temporary 
sensation.  Anonymous,  it  was  attributed  to  different 
authors,  all  of  them  men  of  note,  and  two  of  whom  an 
swered  the  accusation  in  a  London  paper.  The  one,  an 
American,  Anglicized  by  years  of  living  in  England, 
wrote  with  a  sort  of  plaintive  dignity,  asking  what  he 
had  ever  written  that  laid  him  open  to  the  charge  of  be 
ing  guilty  of  "  'He  and  Hecuba,'  which,  clever  as  it 
undoubtedly  is,  and  pulsing  with  life,  is  so  obviously  a 
first  'book?  "  Then,  gently,  with  much  kindness  and  a 
little  mild  sarcasm,  he  drew  attention  to  the  slight  crudi 
ties  of  style  of  which  he  had  never,  even  in  his  earliest 
efforts,  been  guilty. 

Hardy,  who  had,  through  a  curious,  unexplained 
feeling  of  shrinking,  arranged  with  his  publishers  to 
have  the  proofs  corrected  by  them,  knew  nothing  of 
this,  a  curious,  unexplained  scruple  preventing  him  from 
reading  the  book  notices  in  his  one  London  paper.  He 
had  not  seen  the  book  itself,  restrained  by  the  same  curi 
ous  reluctance  to  bring  himself  again  in  touch  with  the 
old  story. 

He  had  written  a  book  that  had  been  bought  at  a 
151 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

remarkable  price  by  one  of  the  first  publishers  in  Lon 
don;  the  money  had  brought  him  comfort  and  ease; 
what  the  story  was,  he  knew,  for  it  was  his  own  story, 
but  how  he  had  told  it,  in  what  vein,  in  what  words,  he 
had  forgotten. 

The  other  great  man  to  whom  the  book  was  attrib 
uted  was  a  west  country  man  who  had  suddenly,  a  few 
years  before,  astonished  the  English-speaking  world 
with  a  psychological  novel  which  in  keenness,  ruthless- 
ness,  and  knowledge  of  the  world,  was  still  unrivaled. 

Hardy  was  too  ignorant  of  contemporary  literature 
to  have  appreciated  to  the  full  the  compliment  paid  to 
him  by  the  Day  in  attributing  his  work  to  the  au 
thor  of  "  Puppets,"  but  he  might  have  learned  some 
thing  of  it  in  reading  the  dispute  the  question  imme 
diately  raised,  particularly  when  at  length  Henry  Craw 
ford  himself  stepped  quietly  into  the  arena,  and  in  a 
short,  pithy  letter  proved  his  ignorance  but  intense  ad 
miration  of  the  man  who  had  written ' '  He  and  Hecuba. ' ' 

One  day  he  saw  a  copy  of  his  book  lying  on  a  table 
at  Borrowdaile  House,  but  a  fit  of  shyness  prevented  his 
even  referring  to  it,  and  neither  of  the  Yarrows  men 
tioned  it.  The  first  edition  was  sold  out  in  a  fortnight, 
a  new  one  came  out  at  once,  and  in  the  papers  the  war 
still  raged.  Hardy's  percentage  on  sale  was  large,  and 
with  the  third  edition  he  was  to  have  an  increase. 

The  sale  in  America  was  proportionately  great,  and 
the  American  papers  devoted  columns  to  the  book,  which 
was  considered  un-English  in  its  vividness  and  fire,  as 
well  as  a  great  study  in  psychology. 

152 


HE    AND    HECUBA 

Hardy's  charities  grew  rapidly  at  this  time;  he  gave 
new  hymnals  to  the  Sunday  school,  subscribed  largely 
to  the  village  charities,  rebuilt  a  burned  cottage  at  his 
own  expense,  and,  in  a  word,  gave  with  both  hands  of 
the  money  that  came  to  him  in  checks  larger  than  any 
he  had  seen  for  years.  The  pleasure  he  derived  from 
this  was  very  keen;  keener,  possibly,  as  it  also  some 
what  healed  his  conscience,  than  that  caused  by  the  bet 
ter  condition  of  things  at  home. 

He  was  curiously  scrupulous,  too,  as  to  the  in 
crease  of  expenses  in  his  household,  something  that  he 
did  not  stop  to  analyze  holding  him  back  from  giving 
to  his  wife  and  children  more  than  what  he  had  grown, 
in  the  light  of  bitter  circumstances,  to  consider  the  ne 
cessities  of  life.  His  children  wore  ill-made,  cheap 
clothes  and  coarse  boots ;  his  wife — although,  manlike,  he 
would  have  loved  to  deck  her  out  in  finery  that  would 
have  been  ill  suited  to  her  faded  middle  age — had  but 
one  new  gown;  the  difference  was  that  wholeness  had 
taken  the  place  of  holes,  sordid  decency  that  of  the  hor 
rible  slovenliness  that  had  been  so  unbearable. 

As  for  himself,  he  had  only  some  new  surplices 
and  a  pair  of  boots.  In  the  village,  and  in  his  parish 
work,  he  was  even  more  unsparing  of  himself  than 
ever. 

Shortly  after  he  had  written  to  "Woodvil  telling  him 
of  Madame  Perez's  consent  to  leaving  Borrowdaile, 
a  fire  had  broken  out  at  the  Point,  and  Hardy,  sum 
moned  in  the  night,  was  severely  burned  in  his  efforts 
to  conquer  it.  His  right  hand  and  arm  were  useless  for 

153 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

a  long  time,  causing  him  torturing  pain  and  many 
sleepless  nights.  During  the  long  hours  he  lay  and 
thought  of  many  things,  wondering  often  why,  with  the 
writing  of  his  book,  his  old  terror  and  horror  of  the  past 
had  left  him.  It  was  as  though,  having  confessed  him 
self  to  the  paper  as  he  had  been  and  as  he  had  done,  he 
had  received  absolution  for  his  old  sin.  The  knowledge 
and  sorrow  for  it  were,  of  course,  still  there,  but  he  was 
their  master,  not  their  slave,  as  he  had  been  for  so  many 
weary  years. 

In  spite  of  his  suffering  with  his  burns,  and  the  lack 
of  repose  caused  by  it,  he  looked  better  and  younger 
than  he  had  for  months.  The  lines  about  his  eyes  and 
mouth  were  smoothed  into  the  background,  his  eyes  grew 
less  somber.  Mary  Yarrow  and  Mr.  Dudley,  comment 
ing  on  it,  attributed  the  change  to  the  legacy. 

; '  I  wish  she  could  come  to  life  again,  the  old  aunt, ' ' 
Mary  said,  drawing  her  needle  through  the  long  slip  of 
filmy  batiste  she  was  hemming,  "  just  long  enough  for 
me  to  thank  her !  ' ' 

' '  She  must  have  been  richer  than  any  one  thought, ' ' 
the  Rector  returned.  "  The  Bishop  knew  her  and  he 
thought  she  was  rather  poor. ' ' 

"  Dear  old  thing,  perhaps  she  was  hoarding  for  the 
Hardys.  Dear  me,  how  he  did  '  jump  on  us  '  that  day, 
didn't  he?  " 

One  warm,  moist  morning,  when  little  wisps  of  mist 
hung  over  hollows  in  the  wet  earth,  hiding  early  violets, 
Hardy  hired  the  phaeton  of  the  Borrowdaile  Arms,  and 
drove  his  wife  to  Sabley-on-Sea  to  buy  a  bonnet.  The 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

old  one,  she  told  him,  in  a  little  flutter  of  excited  pleas 
ure,  was  really  quite  too  awful  to  wear  with  her  new 
gown. 

"  Yes,  but  you  are  to  have  another  gown,  too,  my 
dear,"  he  said,  gathering  the  reins  and  prodding  the  fat 
pony  with  the  blunt  whip.  "  I  want  you  to  have  a  gray 
gown  and  a  gray  bonnet.  The  gown  is  to  be  made  with 
fluffy — hem — flummadiddles  down  the  front.  Lady 
Yarrow  has  one  made  that  way,  and  I  like  it. ' ' 

Her  answer  was  a  laugh  with  a  sob  in  it.  "  Oh, 
King,  you  are  too  good  to  me.  I  really  don't  need  it. 
Only  last  week  the  three  pairs  of  stockings,  and  now  a 
gown  and  a  bonnet.  You  ought  to  get  something  for 
yourself!  " 

"  Nonsense,  Abby!  My  best  coat  is  only  six  years 
old,  and  black  always  looks  well  enough.  See  how  blue 
the  sky  is!  " 

Once  he  got  out  and  picked  a  bunch  of  violets  for 
her,  which  she  tucked  into  her  gown  with  a  flush  of 
pleasure  that  tortured  him  keenly.  It  was  years  since 
she  had  been  driving,  and  the  gentle  exercise  delighted 
her  and  brought  back  to  her  thin  face  something  of  the 
humble  beauty  that  had  been  hers  long  ago. 

They  bought  the  stuff  for  the  gown  after  much  de 
bate,  and,  after  leaving  it  at  the  dressmaker's,  where 
Hardy  waited  while  his  wife  was  being  measured,  went 
on  to  the  shop  where  hats  were  sold. 

'  This  new  shape  is  very  becoming,   ma'am,"  the 
young  woman  told  them,  but  Mrs.  Hardy's  eyes  filled 
with  tears  as  she  looked  at  herself  in  the  glass. 
H  155 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

"  No,  I  have  grown  too  old,"  she  said,  simply. 
"  Show  me  something  else,  please." 

At  length  they  chose  a  small,  flat,  gray  straw  with  a 
bunch  of  primroses  on  one  side,  and  when  it  had  been 
firmly  pinned  to  her  thin  plaits,  and  a  dotted  veil  drawn 
over  her  face,  Mrs.  Hardy  turned  to  her  husband  with 
a  faint  blush. 

"  Do  I  look  nice,  King?  "  And  Hardy,  as  he  an 
swered,  felt  his  throat  contract. 

The  fat  pony  once  more  coaxed  into  shambling  motion, 
they  drove  slowly  down  the  little  street. 

"  I — it  is  so  silly — I  feel  as  if  every  one  we  met  wrere 
looking  at  me,  King!  " 

"  And  so  they  are,  my  dear.  It  is — how  many  years 
since  we've  been  here  in — a  wheeled  thing!  And  that 
hat  certainly  is  very  becoming." 

He  was  thoroughly  sincere.  The  change  that  a  little 
happiness,  and  comparatively  good  food  had  brought 
about  in  her,  seemed  to  him  to  be  crowned  that  morning 
by  the  new  hat  and  her  pride  in  it.  There  was  a  light  in 
her  faded  eyes,  a  glow  on  her  cheek  that  seemed  almost 
like  beauty  to  him.  As  they  passed  Glegg  's  shop,  Hardy 
pulled  up.  Glegg  stood  by  the  door  in  his  shirt  sleeves ; 
he  was  one  of  those  people  who  are  the  first  to  perspire 
in  the  spring  and  to  shiver  in  the  autumn. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Glegg?"  Mrs.  Hardy  said, 
taking  up  her  little  purse  from  her  lap.  ' '  Have  you  the 
latest  '  Lady's  Pictorial?  '  She  tried  to  look  uncon 
scious  that  it  was  the  first  time  for  years  that  she  had 
bought  a  magazine. 

156 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

"  Certainly,  ma'am.  One  minute."  The  little  man 
bounded  into  his  shop,  and  came  back  with  his  arms  full 
of  books  and  magazines.  He  had  heard  of  the  legacy. 

"  There's  the  '  Lady's  Pictorial,'  Mrs.  Hardy,  and 
there's  the  '  Queen,'  the  '  Strand,'  and  the  rest — and 
here's  the  newest  books,  just  down  yesterday,  the  very 
latest  publications." 

One  by  one  he  handed  the  books  to  Hardy,  who 
passed  them  to  his  wife. 

"  Stanley  Weyman's  newest  and  Gertrude  Ather- 
ton's — and  there's  '  He  and  Hecuba.'  That's  the  book 
of  the  day.  They  say  it's  by  a  member  of  the  Royal 
Family." 

Mrs.  Hardy's  thin  lips  quivered  with  excitement  as 
she  took  the  gaily  bound  volume.  She  opened  it,  read  a 
few  lines,  and  pushed  it  away  with  a  little  gesture  of 
offended  delicacy.  "  Oh,  King,"  she  cried,  "  it's  hor 
rid!  " 

Hardy  laughed  harshly.  "  A  sign  of  the  times, 
Abby.  Come,  choose  your  magazines  and  let  us  go  on. 
Just  put  them  down  to  me,  Mr.  Glegg. " 

As  they  drove  on,  she  stroked  the  cover  of  the  top 
most  magazine  gently. 

"  Isn't  it  delightful  to  have  a  little  money?  I 
haven't  bought  anything  since  Anna  was  born.  Dear 
old  Aunt  Merrick,  I — I  hope  she  knows!  " 

Turning,  he  looked  at  her,  the  frown  fading  from  his 
eyes,  his  lips  shaking  a  little. 

"  Dear  Abby!  "  he  said,  softly. 


157 


CHAPTEE   XX 

ROSALBA  PEREZ,  as  she  called  herself,  sat  in  an  arbor 
made  of  a  very  old  and  very  carefully  clipped  yew-tree, 
eating  chocolates.  In  the  cool,  green  light  she,  in  her 
white  gown,  looked  very  lovely  and  a  little  uncanny. 
Her  heavy,  bronze  hair,  unloosed,  hung  in  regular  waves 
to  the  ground  over  the  back  of  her  cane  chair,  and  rest 
ing  there  on  the  soft  moss,  seemed  to  have  caught  in  its 
meshes  all  the  color  in  the  world,  leaving  only  a  gloomy 
green  for  other  things.  The  shadows  in  the  folds  of  the 
beautiful  woman's  gown  were  green,  the  lights  on  her 
slightly  hollowed  cheek  green,  the  hand  with  which,  with 
a  little  silver  gilt  nipper,  she  carried  the  chocolate  to  her 
mouth,  was  also  shaded  with  green. 

And  outside,  she  knew,  there  was  an  unusually  bright 
sun  for  May  in  England,  and  every  one  but  herself  was 
enjoying,  basking  in,  and  talking  about,  that  same  sun. 

She  had  come  here  out  of  pure  contradictoriness, 
after  a  walk  to  Borrowdaile  House,  where  she  had  found 
Lord  Yarrow  and  Mary  in  the  walled  garden,  fire-wor 
shipping,  like  every  one  else.  Yarrow,  now  too  weak 
for  any  sustained  effort,  had,  as  usual,  sketched  her 
roughly  in  water  colors  as  she  sat,  her  hands  clasped 
about  her  knees,  chatting  to  them. 

"  Water  is  no  medium  with  which  to  paint  you, 
158 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

most  beauteous  lady,"  he  had  said.  "  If  I  could  dip 
my  brush  into  sunlight  and  then  into  the  color,  perhaps 
I  could  get  an  idea  of  you. ' ' 

The  two  women  had  laughed  at  him  indulgently, 
Mary  with  tears  in  her  eyes.  She  recognized,  by  his 
greater  frankness  of  speech,  that  he  felt  the  time  of  con 
ventionality  to  be  about  over  for  him;  that  he  was  en 
joying  his  privileges  as  a  man  almost  dying,  to  say  what 
he  chose. 

"  You  flatter,"  Madame  Perez  said,  in  answer.  "  I 
have  grown  thin  and  ugly  since  my  illness.  I  was  too 
long  in  that  dark  room;  I  am  like  a  blanched  potato 
shoot." 

Lady  Yarrow  looked  up  curiously.  "  You  are  a  lit 
tle  pale,"  she  said.  "  Have  you  had  any — worry?  " 
She  had  never  spoken  so  intimately  to  the  other  woman 
before,  and  the  impulse  came  from  a  variety  of  reasons. 
Her  prospective  motherhood  had  greatly  softened  her, 
and  her  not  to  be  denied  prospective  widowhood  in 
clined  her  very  tenderly  towards  those  who  loved  her 
husband.  Rosalba  Perez  was  not  a  woman  whom  she 
would  ever  be  really  fond  of,  and  she  had  never  quite 
trusted  her,  but  the  sincerity  of  the  South  American's 
liking  for  and  admiration  of  Lord  Yarrow  was  very  evi 
dent  to  her,  and  something  about  the  woman's  face  to 
day  had  moved  her  to  pity. 

'  Have  I — a  worry?     Yes.     I  have  a  worry,  Lady 
Yarrow.    Thank  you  for  the  way  you  said  that. ' ' 

Yarrow  watched  them  dreamily.  His  wife,  pale, 
with  olive  rings  about  her  eyes,  and  a  weary  droop  of 

159 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

her  smooth  head;  the  other  with  her  splendid  coloring 
softened  a  little  to  something  more  human  than  he  had 
seen  in  her  before,  a  slight  fold  between  her  level  brows. 

Mary  Yarrow  was  a  very  good  woman,  he  knew.  He 
knew  the  best  of  her,  and  the  worst,  and  had  watched, 
since  their  marriage,  the  gradual  unfolding  of  her  char 
acter  to  the  good  influences  he  had  brought  to  bear  on 
her.  He  had  seen  her  grow  from  a  vain,  coquettish  girl 
with  a  sharp  tongue,  though  a  radically  good  heart,  into 
a  gentle,  unselfish  woman,  hiding  under  a  serene  exterior 
an  old  wound  that  the  man,  in  his  great-mindedness, 
could  realize  without  a  pang,  to  be  still  existent.  That 
woman  was  his  wife,  sewing,  in  the  little  sunny  garden, 
on  some  tiny  garment  for  her  baby.  Beside  her  the  other 
woman,  of  whom  he  knew,  in  reality,  nothing.  She  had 
told  him  her  story,  and  though  he  had  made  no  sign,  he 
had  not  believed  her.  Her  curious  lack  of  vanity  had, 
combined  with  her  unusual  beauty,  interested  him  psy 
chologically  as  well  as  artistically,  and  though  he  knew 
she  had  lied  to  him,  he  liked  her. 

King  Hardy,  a  man  who  had  sinned  himself,  had 
been  unable  to  forgive  her  the  sin  she  had  herself  con 
fessed  to  him. 

Yarrow,  whose  life  had  been  almost  irreproachable, 
understood  by  instinct  something  of  what  her  past  must 
have  been,  and  though  she  had  lied  to  him,  sympathized 
with  and  forgave  her.  Her  way  of  answering  his  wife's 
question  had  pleased  him,  and  when,  shortly  afterwards, 
she  rose  and  took  leave  of  them,  he  said  to  Mary: 
' '  Dearest,  never  be  hard  on  that  woman. ' ' 

1GO 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

Mary  looked  up.    "  I  know.    Am  I  hard  on  her?  " 

"  No.  I  don't  want  you  to  love  her,  but — don't  be 
hard  on  her." 

For  a  few  minutes  Lady  Yarrow  stitched  in  silence. 

"  Borrow — don't  you  think  she  is  a  strange  crea 
ture?  " 

1 '  Yes.  Very.  It  is  abnormal  for  any  woman  to  have 
so  little  vanity." 

"  I  didn't  mean  that.  I  meant  that  she — she  must 
have  what  people  call  a  story — a  past.  I  wonder  if  her 
husband  isn't  alive." 

"  Yes.    She  told  me  so  once." 

"  Ah !  Men  must  have  loved  her,  and  she  seems  so 
undisciplined — so  childish  in  some  ways.  I  wonder 
whether  she  left  her  husband — with  another  man?  " 

Yarrow  paused  an  instant  before  he  answered.  '  I 
have  thought  so  at  times.  But  she  is  curiously  lacking 
in  sentiment — I  should  say,  in  spite  of  her  beauty,  that 
she  is  cold  in  temperament.  Perhaps  the  lack  we  feel  in 
her  is  rather  owing  to  too  little  than  to  too  much 
love." 

Meanwhile,  the  object  of  their  friendly  discussion 
had  walked  home,  changed  her  gown,  and,  bored  by  a  re 
mark  of  her  maid  about  the  beautiful  sun,  had  gone  to 
the  yew-tree  arbor,  and  was  sitting  in  the  green  gloom, 
absently  eating  chocolates.  Beside  her,  on  a  table  fash 
ioned  on  a  low  bough,  lay  a  book  and  a  couple  of  letters. 
The  letters  were  both  opened,  one  of  them,  indeed,  hav 
ing  a  date  of  the  previous  week.  At  length,  without  ris 
ing,  she  reached  out  and  took  them. 

161 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

' '  Why  have  you  not  obeyed  me  ?  "  the  earlier  began, 
abruptly.  ' '  I  have  let  you  do  as  you  like  for  years,  but 
you  are  still  my  wife,  and  I  exact  this  act  of  obedience 
from  you.  Go  at  once.  J.  W." 

"  Still  his  wife!  If  we  were  not  Catholics  I  should 
have  been  '  his  late  wife  '  years  ago — or  his  ex-wife." 

The  other  letter  was  larger,  written  in  a  tone  of 
moderation  but  obviously  the  outcome  of  much  self-con 
trol.  She  reread  the  last  sentence  several  times.  "  The 
rest  of  England  and  all  the  continent  is  open  to  you  so 
far  as  I  am  concerned,  but  I  will  not  have  you  at  Bor- 
rowdaile.  If  I  do  not  hear  from  you  at  once  I  will 
come.  J.  W." 

"  I  wonder,"  she  said,  aloud,  as  she  put  the  letter 
slowly  back  into  its  envelope, ' '  why  I  am  supposed  to  be 
peculiarly  dangerous  to  Borrowdaile.  He  surely  isn't 
afraid  that  Yarrow  will  fall  in  love  with  me?  Poor 
Yarrow. ' ' 

The  letter  had  come  two  or  three  days  before,  and  was 
still  unanswered.  Hardy  had  written  to  Woodvil  three 
weeks  before,  that  Mrs.  Woodvil  would  leave  Bor 
rowdaile  as  soon  as  the  doctors  allowed  her  to  travel.  A 
few  days  after  the  letter  had  gone  she  had  been  allowed 
to  have  a  little  light  in  her  room,  and  within  ten  days 
had  been  in  the  garden  with  a  green  shade  on  her  eyes. 
She  had  not  seen  Hardy  since,  but  once,  wandering  at 
the  edge  of  her  small  park,  she  had  met  Algy,  his  oldest 
son,  -and  sent  a  message  to  him. 

"  Tell  your  father,"  she  had  told  the  boy,  "  that  I 
am  going  Wednesday."  The  following  day  she  had  ex- 

162 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

pected  Hardy  to  come  and  he  had  not  come.  She  had 
heard  from  the  Yarrows  that  he  had  been  very  busy  at 
Easter,  that  his  baby  had  died,  and  that  his  wife  was 
unwell,  but  these  things  did  not  explain  his  not  coming 
to  say  good-by  to  her.  With  all  her  lack  of  vanity  she 
had  come,  through  years  of  experience,  to  have  a  certain 
unexpressed,  unanalyzed  faith  in  the  effects  of  her  beau 
ty  on  men,  so  that  Hardy 's  evident  unconsciousness  of  it 
irritated  her,  though  she  had  only  twice — and  one  of 
those  two  times  in  a  perfectly  dark  room ! — tried  to  use  it 
as  an  active  force  against  him.  And  now  he  did  not  come. 
He  would  let  her  go  away  without  a  word.  Day  after 
day  she  put  off  her  departure,  and  now,  as  she  lounged 
in  the  arbor,  she  had  reached  the  pitch  at  which  one 
knows  that  something  must  be  going  to  happen.  The 
very  stillness  of  the  May  morning  seemed  to  her  the 
hush  before  some  great  event,  and  bored  and  discontent 
ed  as  she  had  been  for  weeks,  she  awaited  the  event  with 
a  smile.  When  it  came  she  smiled  on  for  a  second,  and 
then  said,  with  a  little  wave  of  her  hands,  "  How  do  you 
do !  Won 't  you  come  in  ?  ' ' 

Woodvil  and  Hardy,  who  had  come  up  from  oppo 
site  directions  and  stood  facing  each  other,  one  at  each 
side  of  her,  stooped  and  entered  the  little  enclosure. 

"  How  do  you  do?  "  Woodvil  held  out  his  hand, 
and  Hardy,  frowning,  gave  him  his.  Then  there  was  a 
short  silence.  "  I  have  come,"  Woodvil  began  present 
ly,  "  to  see  why  you  do  not  go  away  from  here  as  you 
promised.  As  Mr.  Hardy  knows  all  about  it  I  may  as 
well  come  to  the  point  at  once. ' ' 

163 


HE    AND    HECUBA 

"  Mr.  Hardy  has  evidently  come  to  ask  the  same 
question,"  she  returned,  carelessly. 

"  Yes.  I  did.  I  came,  too,  to  say  good-by  to  you, 
which  I  will  do  at  once  and  go,"  Hardy  went  on. 

He  was  too  tall  to  stand  upright  in  the  low  arbor,  and 
stood  bending  his  shoulders  forward,  his  hat  in  his  hand. 
Woodvil,  half  a  head  shorter  and  conspicuously  graceful 
in  his  slight  way,  looked  a  boy  beside  him. 

She  looked  at  them  for  a  minute,  and  then  the  old 
instinct  to  tease  Hardy  came  back.  About  Woodvil  it 
mattered  less,  and  she  did  not  try  to  resist  punishing  the 
other  man  in  the  way  nearest  at  hand. 

'  Don 't  say  good-by, ' '  she  said,  smiling.  ' '  It  would 
be  a  great  waste  of  time,  because — I  am  not  going." 

" Not  going!"  The  words  were  written  in  both  their 
faces. 

"  No.  Not  going.  If  you,  Jacques,  choose  to  tell 
people  that  I  am  your  wife,  I  shall  be — delighted  to  have 
you  come  and  stay  with  me  here.  The  house  is  very  nice 
and  there  is  plenty  of  room — 

"  You  are  crazy,  Rosalba,"  he  said,  a  little  roughly. 
Then,  turning  to  Hardy,  with  a  curious  reliance  on  a 
friendship  that  was  as  yet  purely  potential,  he  went  on : 
"  You  had  better  go,  Hardy.  I  must  have  this  out  with 
her." 

Hardy  nodded.    "Yes.    Good-by." 

As  he  backed  out,  Woodvil  added,  hastily,  "  If  you 
should  see  either  of  the  Yarrows,  please  don't  mention 
having  seen  me.  I  go  back  by  the  twelve-three  train 
and  shan't  have  time  to  look  them  up."  The  bough  fell 

164 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

with  a  little  shimmer  of  lights  and  shadows  and  the  two 
were  alone. 

"  I  hope  you  will  be  reasonable  and  do  as  I — ask  you 
— without  further  parley,"  he  said,  in  Spanish. 

"  If  you  were  reasonable  you  would  not  ask  me  to 
go.  "What  harm  do  I  do  here  ?  ' ' 

He  hesitated.  "  I  don't  say  you  are  willingly  doing 
harm.  But  you  are  living  among  my  friends  under  false 
pretenses — 

"  Then  tell  your  friends.  Yarrow  knows  I  am  not  a 
widow. ' ' 

"  There  is  no  use  in  raking  up  dead  and  gone  stories. 
I  am  quite  willing  to  believe  that  you  are — are  doing  no 
harm.  God  knows  I  am  ready  to  believe  the  best.  Even 
if — that  had  never  happened,  you  and  I  couldn't  have 
lived  together.  That  we  are  bound  in  this  way  is  my 
fault;  you  were  too  young  to  know." 

She  was  silent,  looking  at  him. 

"  Please  go  away.  I  shall  be  very  grateful  to  you. 
Yarrow 's  my  dearest  friend — I  can 't  bear  to  have  you — 
surely  you  understand." 

' '  You  mean  that  if  he  knew,  he  wouldn  't  let  his  wife 
know  me?  " 

"  Partly  that,  yes,"  he  answered,  gravely. 

She  rose,  and  twisting  her  hair  slowly  over  one  hand, 
fastened  it  with  a  big  tortoise-shell  comb. 

"  I  will  not  go,"  she  said.  "  I  like  it  here,  and  I 
like  the  Yarrows.  I  have  never  done  anything — any 
thing  wrong  since  then,  and  I  do  no  harm  here.  But  I 
will  tell  Lord  Yarrow,  if  you  like,  myself,  and  do  as  he 
says."  165 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

Woodvil  started  with  a  little  exclamation.  "  No,  no. 
You  mustn  't  tell  Yarrow !  ' ' 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  certain  softening  in  her 
eyes.  "  You  are  very  fond  of  him,  Jacques.  Well, 
then,  and  that  which  will  be  much  harder,  I  will  tell  her. 
She  shall  judge." 

He  turned  white  and  did  not  answer  at  once.  Then 
he  said,  slowly,  weighing  every  word. 

"  No.  There  is  no  use  in  telling  her.  It  would  only 
worry  her,  and  no  English  woman  could  answer  any 
thing  that  wouldn't  hurt  you.  Stay,  I  have  done  my 
best,  and  I  am  beaten.  Remember,  though — "  she 
turned  and  looked  at  him  curiously — "  you  put  me  in  a 
horrible  position,  and  when  Yarrow  is  dying  and  sends 
for  me,  as  he  will,  you  must  not  let  me  see  you  before — 
him.  I  couldn't  keep  up  the  comedy." 

"  It  isn't  a  comedy,"  she  said,  holding  out  her  hand. 
"  It's  the  most  real  thing  I  have.  I  love  Yarrow  and  I 
would  love  her,  too,  if — she  would  let  me.  Thanks, 
Jacques.  I'll  remember,  and  really,  I'll  do  nothing  to 
— complicate  matters.  I  suppose  there's  no  use  in  my 
offering  you  luncheon?  " 

Then  she  was  alone.  "  I  have  fought  and  I  have 
won — what  ?  ' '  she  said  aloud.  ' '  I  wonder !  ' ' 


166 


CHAPTER   XXI 

"  CONSOMME,  roast  beef,  roast  fowl,  and  vegetables, 
salad,  pineapple  ice,  fruit,  coffee."  The  menu  was 
pinned  to  the  kitchen  wall  and  every  time  Katie  passed 
it  she  stopped  and  reread  it  slowly,  aloud,  her  voice  cul 
minating  in  an  expression  of  awe  at  the  pineapple  ice, 
and  sinking,  through  fruit,  back  to  commonplace  coffee. 

Hardy  had  made  the  list,  cutting  ruthlessly  from  the 
more  elaborate  one  proposed  by  his  wife.  "  Timbales 
and  such  things  are  out  of  place  in  a  house  like  ours," 
he  said,  decidedly,  ' '  and  besides,  Katie  mustn  't  have  too 
much  to  do  or  she'll  muddle  everything.  We'll  have  an 
ice  from  Sabley;  it  will  save  labor.  You'll  have  to  look 
after  the  consomme.  Mind  it 's  not  greasy. ' ' 

Mrs.  Hardy  nodded,  but  without  conviction.  "  It's 
a  very  plain  dinner  for  a  Bishop,"  she  returned. 

"  So  long  as  it's  good,  the  plainness  doesn't  matter," 
he  returned,  with  a  grim  smile  at  the  recollection  of  the 
last  meal  of  which  His  Lordship  had  partaken  under  his 
roof.  "  And  have  enough  fowl  for  every  one  to  have 
white  meat.  I  don't  believe  any  one  in  the  world  really 
likes  the  dark." 

This  was  ten  days  ago,  and  now  the  great  evening 
had  come,  and  everything  was  ready;  the  pineapple  ice 

167 


'HE   AND    HECUBA 

packed  in  a  tub,  stood — to  the  great  excitement  of  the 
older  children,  who  were  dining  in  the  kitchen,  and 
helping  the  much  irritated  Katie — outside  the  door ;  the 
fruit,  piled  high  in  a  glass  dish  and  adorned  with  green 
leaves,  was  on  the  table ;  the  four  tiny  coffee  cups,  relics 
of  an  old-time  dozen,  stood  on  a  tray  in  the  back  hall. 
The  fowls,  beautifully  browning,  hissed  in  their  gravy, 
and  the  kitchen  smelt  like  Heaven. 

The  younger  children  were  at  the  Tenches,  but  Algy, 
Anna,  and  Eustace  were  crowded  into  the  hot  little 
room,  condemned  by  Katie — who,  in  a  new  print 
gown  and  white  cap,  was  doing  something  amazing  to 
little  balls  of  potato  scooped  out  that  afternoon  by 
Martha  with  a  brand-new  tin  instrument — to  silence. 

"  Mother  looks  perfectly  glorious,'1  Anna  volun 
teered,  after  a  long  pause.  "  Lady  Yarrow  sent  her 
some  roses,  and  she  has  a  bunch  pinned  on  her  gown !  ' ' 

"  Mother's  all  right,  if  you  like,"  commented  Algy, 
reaching  the  chopped  parsley  humbly  to  Katie,  "  but 
have  you  seen  father.  Father  is  the  handsomest  chap 
in  the  county,  I  tell  you  that." 

The  others  were  silent.  It  had  never  occurred  to 
them  that  their  dark-browed  father  was  handsome,  yet  it 
seemed  hardly  filial  to  admit  as  much. 

' '  He 's  got  on  a  new  collar  that  shines  like  glass,  and 
he's  splendid.  I  went  into  the  study  while  you  were 
looking  at  the  table.  Table!  " 

Anna  laughed  aloud  at  the  tone  of  disgust  in  which 
the  word  was  spoken.  She  was  the  cleverest  of  the  chil 
dren  and  had  a  sense  of  humor. 

168 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

"  The  table  looks  very  pretty,  Your  Worship.  There 
are  roses  in  the  middle,  and  new  salt-cellars,  and 
the  best  table-cloth.  Our  ferns  are  lovely,  too,  Algy ;  the 
fireplace  is  full  of  'em."  As  she  spoke,  the  door  opened 
and  Mrs.  Hardy  came  in,  a  nervous  smile  on  her  lips. 
"Everything  all  right,  Katie?"  she  asked.  "Did 
Martha  do  the  potatoes — oh,  yes,  very  nice.  Not  too 
brown,  Mr.  Hardy  says.  And  don't  forget  that  the  cof 
fee  must  be  jet-black,  will  you?  It  doesn't  matter  how 
much  it  takes  for  this  once." 

Katie  looked  up.  "  No,  ma'am,  I  won't  forget  noth 
ing.  My  fowls  are  splendid,  and  the  soup's  as  free  of 
grease  as  water.  My,  I  knew  them  curls  'd  be  becom 
ing!  "  The  faithful  creature's  eyes  were  full  of  the 
most  respectful  admiration,  and  Mrs.  Hardy  appre 
ciated  it. 

' '  I  'm  glad  you  think  so,  Katie, ' '  she  answered.  ' '  Do 
you  like  my  gown?  " 

It  was  the  gray  gown,  with  the  collar  cut  off  for  the 
occasion,  a  small  triangle  of  stringy  neck  exposed,  edged 
with  a  little  scrap  of  lace.  The  curls,  admired  of  Katie, 
had  brought  a  feeling  of  heat  to  Hardy's  eyes  when  he 
first  saw  them,  they  were  so  pitifully,  obviously,  the  re 
sult  of  hot  irons,  and  somehow  so  inappropriate  to  the 
high,  shining  brow  under  them.  The  roses,  some  of  those 
sent  by  Lady  Yarrow,  were  pinned  to  the  flat  corsage 
with  an  old  gold  arrow  tipped  with  a  topaz,  that  had  be 
longed  to  Mrs.  Hardy's  mother,  and  was  cleaned  to  a 
brassy  brightness  with  soap  and  water.  She  was  still 
talking  to  Katie,  repeating  some  directions  for  the  hun- 

169 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

dredth  time,  when  the  door-bell  rang,  and  Katie  untying 
the  blue-check  apron  with  one  hand  grabbed  up  her  stiff 
white  one  and  flew  away,  followed  by  her  mistress. 

It  was  the  Bishop,  rosy  and  dapper,  who  greeted  her 
a  minute  later  in  the  fern-filled  drawing-room  which  she 
entered  so  rarely  that  she  found  herself  furtively  exam 
ining  it  during  the  ensuing  conversation.  The  lace  cur 
tains,  recently  mended,  were  rigid  with  cleanliness  and 
starch ;  the  few  books  on  the  table  lay  with  irremediable 
stiffness.  They  were  books  that  could  not  look  natural, 
somehow,  and  they  all  had  gilt  edges.  The  pictures,  two 
or  three  old  portraits  and  an  old  Venetian  scene,  were 
fairly  good,  and  in  ugly,  good,  old-fashioned  frames. 
The  carpet  was  rather  dreadful,  and  the  table  cover  a 
tinsel-embroidered  horror,  the  gift  of  Miss  Tench.  But 
there  were  branches  of  apple-blossom  in  the  ugly  vases 
on  the  chimney-piece,  roses  on  the  table,  and  the  fire 
place  was  a  mass  of  ferns.  And  it  was  her  own  draw 
ing-room;  the  distinguished-looking  man  talking  to  the 
Bishop  was  her  husband;  the  Bishop  was  her  guest — 
and  the  simple  dinner  Tds  going  to  be  good.  The  poor 
woman's  face  softened  and  grew  younger  in  her  happy 
pride. 

The  other  guest,  Madame  Perez,  arrived  on  the  stroke 
of  eight,  taking  the  Bishop  quite  by  storm,  she  was  so 
beautiful  in  her  simple  violet  gown,  a  diamond  star 
catching  the  lace  at  one  side  of  her  corsage.  Mrs.  Hardy 
\vas  grateful  to  her  for  the  simplicity  of  her  gown; 
Hardy,  without  admitting  it  himself,  for  the  diamond 
star. 

170 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

"  Am  I  late?  "  she  asked,  as  she  shook  hands  with 
her  hostess.  ' '  I  am  so  sorry.  My  coachman  is,  I  found 
on  getting  out,  very  drunk — most  drunk,  and  had  been 
under  the  impression  that  we  were  going  to  Borrowdaile 
House— 

"  These  lanes  are  dangerous  when  one  isn't  sure  of 
one's  coachman,"  the  Bishop  observed,  when  he  had 
been  introduced  to  her. 

"  And  then  our  lane  is  not  much  frequented  by  the 
like  of  Pratt,"  Hardy  observed,  giving  his  arm  to  Ma 
dame  Perez. 

The  Bishop  noticed  the  lack  in  his  voice  of  the  bitter 
ness  which  would  have  been  in  it  a  few  months  ago,  and 
cast  yet  another  benedictory  thought  to  the  shade  of 
Mrs.  Merrick. 

The  dinner  was  good,  and  His  Lordship  was  hungry. 
Also,  opposite  him  sat  the  most  beautiful  woman  he  had 
ever  seen  in  his  life,  and  he  had  already  promised  to 
lunch  with  her  the  following  day.  Hardy,  who  had  not 
wished  to  introduce  what  he  considered  a  discordant  ele 
ment  into  the  little  dinner,  listened  with  amazement  to 
the  easy  flow  of  words  with  which  the  usually  silent 
woman  led  the  conversation  into  channels  easy  to  all. 
Once  in  a  rush  of  his  old  jealous  resentment,  he  thought 
savagely,  "  She  is  taking  pains  to  help  us  out,"  and  he 
abruptly  changed  the  subject  to  that  of  cottage  sanita 
tion,  which  bored  the  Bishop  and  evoked  a  look  of  mild 
surprise  from  his  wife.  Ashamed  of  himself,  he  began 
at  once  on  the  former  subject  with  a  suddenness  that  was 
very  noticeable. 

12  171 


HE    AND    HECUBA 

"  Have  you  read  '  The  Sky-Pilot  '?  "he  said,  charg 
ing  headlong  into  His  Lordship's  mild  remarks  as  to 
Condy's  Fluid. 

"  '  The  Sky-Pilot'?  No,  I  think  not.  I  read  few 
novels;  no  time.  But  speaking  of  books  again,  have  you 
read  Canon  Carr's  '  Defence  of  Queen  Caroline'?  No? 
A  wonderful  book,  Hardy.  The  subject  is  a  difficult  one, 
eh?  And  especially  so  for  a  clergyman.  Well,  the  book 
is  a  poem.  There  isn't  one  offensive  word  in  it,  though 
he  goes  to  the  bottom  of  the  affair  most  impartially." 

"  Ah!  "  said  the  Rector. 

"  I  gave  it  to  my  wife  to  read,"  went  on  His  Lord 
ship.  "  It  is  delightful  to  come  across  such  a  book;  de 
lightful.  One  of  the  worst  features  of  this  age  is  its  ten 
dency  to  nasty  literature. ' ' 

' '  But  surely  English  books  are  so  very  nice  1  ' '  Ma 
dame  Perez  bent  towards  the  speaker  over  the  roses.  The 
Bishop  shook  his  head  sorrowfully. 

"  Dear  lady,  ten  years  ago  English  books  were  bet 
ter  than  any  others — it  was  safe  to  give  nine  out  of  ten 
unread  into  the  hands  of  a  young  girl.  Now — what 
with  George  Moore  and  the  rest — bah !  ' ' 

"  George  Moore  and  the  rest  probably  do  not  con 
sider  the  possibility  of  giving  books  unread  into  the 
hands  of  a  young  girl,  the  end  and  aim  of  novel-writ 
ing,  ' '  remarked  Hardy,  very  much  to  his  own  surprise. 

"  Have  you  read  '  Garston  Humphrey'?  "  asked  His 
Lordship,  drily. 

"  No." 

"  Or — oh,  there  are  dozens  of  them.     7  don't  read 
172 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

'era,  but  my  son-in-law  does,  and  I  know.     I  burned  a 
book  the  other  day,  Madame  Perez,"  he  added,  turning. 

"  Indeed?  "  She  was  peeling  a  peach,  the  jewels  on 
her  fingers,  as  Hardy  watched  them,  flashing  in  the  can 
dle  light. 

'  Yes.  A  book  of  which  you  have  no  doubt  heard. 
It  has  created  a  great  sensation.  '  He  and  Hecuba,'  it 
is  called,  and  it  is  one  of  the  worst  books  I  ever  looked 
into  in  my  life.  My  wife  is  an  old  woman,  but  I  burned 
the  thing  that  it  might  not  fall  into  her  hands." 

Hardy  took  up  his  claret  and  drained  it  deliberately. 

"  The  man  must  have  made  a  great  deal  of  money 
by  the  thing,"  went  on  the  Bishop,  unconsciously,  "  for 
they  tell  me  the  sale  has  been  enormous.  The  worst  of 
it  is — no  wine,  thanks — is  that  in  spite  of  certain  signs 
of  its  being  a  first  book,  there  is  great  strength  of  an  evil 
sort  in  the  book.  Bah!  " 

Hardy  nodded.  "  Shocking,"  he  mumbled,  like  a 
man  without  teeth.  He  was  trying  to  recall  what  there 
was  so  outrageous  in  what  he  had  written,  but  his  mem 
ory  was  a  blank. 

"  Such  books  are  on  our  Index,"  Madame  Perez  ob 
served,  smiling.  "It  is  so  very  useful,  the  Index — as  a 
catalogue. ' ' 

Smiling  at  her  little  joke,  but  with  severity  in  his 
blue  eyes,  His  Lordship  went  on:  "  I  wish  we  had  an 
Index  in  the  Church  of  England;  we  need  one  nowa 
days;  books  like  that  are  criminal  in  my  eyes." 

"  What  is  the  subject?  " 

Mrs.  Hardy,  who  remembered  having  had  the  book  in 
173 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

her  hands  in  Sabley,  the  day  of  the  drive,  started  as 
Madame  Perez  asked  the  question. 

"  The  subject — my  dear  lady — the  Seventh  Com 
mandment.  The  lesson  of  the  book,  the  folly  of  adher 
ing  to  it.  It  is  told,  the  story,  in  the  first  person,  with 
a  vividness  of  description,  a  baldness  of  phraseology  that 
is  perfectly  appalling.  It — it  carries  conviction  with 
it,  to  a  certain  extent.  It  is,  as  one  of  the  papers  put  it, 
*  a  fragment  torn  by  a  ruthless  hand  from  the  fabric  of 
life.'  " 

"  But  your  Lordship  read  it?  " 

Up  the  Bishop's  rosy  face  crept  a  wave  of  deep  red, 
so  hot  that  it  forced  tears  to  his  eyes.  ' '  Yes.  I  read  it, 
I  am  ashamed  to  say.  In  the  first  place,  I  have  a  scheme 
to  which  it  more  or  less  appertained,  but  chiefly,  I  fear, 
because — it  interested  me." 

Hardy  burst  into  a  short,  hoarse  laugh. 
'  We  must  not  let  that  fact  go  any  further,  my 
Lord.     It  might  encourage  the  man  to  write  another 
book!  " 

Madame  Perez  dipped  her  slim  fingers  into  her  fin 
ger-glass  and  shook  the  water  daintily  from  them.  Her 
eyes  were  fixed  on  Hardy,  and  as  they  rose  from  the 
table  he  met  her  gaze.  There  was  in  the  short  space  be 
fore  she  turned  away,  an  accusation,  a  defiance,  and  a 
mutual  challenge. 


174 


CHAPTER   XXII 

THE  next  day,  as  Hardy  went  through  the  village 
from  Borrowdaile  House,  he  was  overtaken  by  Madame 
Perez  in  her  pony-cart. 

Stopping  him  with  a  little,  peremptory  motion  of  her 
whip,  she  gave  the  reins  to  the  groom,  and  taking  up  a 
package  that  lay  beside  her,  tried  to  open  it.  The  string 
was  stout,  however,  and  did  not  break.  Hardy  took  it 
from  her,  broke  the  string  with  a  wrench  of  his  strong 
hand  and  gave  it  back  to  her. 

11  I've  been  to  Sabley-on-Sea,"  she  said,  holding  the 
unopened  package  and  smiling  at  him,  the  sun  glinting 
in  her  brown  eyes.  "  Can  you  guess  for  what  I  went?  " 

"  No." 

"  Get  in  and  I'll  drive  you  home." 

"  Thanks,  I  am  not  homeward  bound.  I  have  sev 
eral  visits  to  make.  A  beautiful  day,  isn't  it?  " 

"  Very  beautiful.     Una  bellissima  giornata." 

He  started  nervously.  He  had  not  slept,  and  was, 
she  saw,  a  little  pale. 

"  You  speak  Italian?  "  he  asked,  calmly  enough. 

"  Yes.  Well,  as  you  will  not  come  with  me,  I  will 
not  detain  you.  I  have  something  for  you — a  little — 
souvenir  of  our  delightful  evening  yesterday."  With 

175 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

a  warning  glance  at  the  groom  she  drew  the  paper  from 
her  package,  and  showed  him  two  books  bound  in  red, 
with  black  arabesques  on  the  cover. 

"  It  is  the  book  the  Bishop  spoke  of — '  He  and  Hec 
uba.'  I  went  to  get  it  for  myself,  and  it  occurred  to 
me  that  you  might  like  a  copy,  too.  I  understood  you  to 
say  that  you  had  not  read  it  ?  " 

Hardy  felt  the  ground  slipping  from  under  his  feet, 
the  little  village  street  with  its  low-browed  cottages 
looked  misty  and  strange  to  him. 

"  I  did  not  say  I  had  not  read  it,"  he  answered, 
after  a  pause,  during  which  the  possibility  of  his  an 
swering,  "  I  have  seen  the  book,  but  not  opened  it,"  slid, 
rejected,  through  his  mind. 

Madame  Perez,  her  face  glowing  with  delighted  mis 
chief,  watched  him  while  he  spoke. 

"  Ah,  I  was  mistaken,  then.  At  all  events  read  it, 
and  the  next  time  I  see  you  we  can  talk  it  over — if  it 
~bears  talking  over,  which,  according  to  your  dear  little 
Bishop,  seems  unlikely !  Of  course,  a  Bishop  is  bound 
to  be  strait-laced,  but  even  the  papers  rather  objected 
to  some  of  it.  Of  course,  you  have  read  the  criti 
cisms?  " 

Hardy  took  the  book  and  slid  it  into  his  pocket. 
"  No,  I  have  seen  no  criticisms,"  he  answered,  quietly. 
"  I  rarely  see  newspapers,  and  almost  never  read  book 
notices.  Thanks,  very  much;  good-by." 

Turning  abruptly  he  swung  down  the  street,  splash 
ing  unheeding  through  a  puddle  of  water,  hissed  after 
by  some  geese,  curtsied  to  by  a  couple  of  children. 

176 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

Madame  Perez  watched  him  with  a  smile.  She  had 
been  sure  the  evening  before;  now  she  knew  what 
''doubly  sure"  meant. 

Hardy  interested  her  more  and  more  the  longer 
she  knew  him ;  he  appealed  at  once  to  the  best  and  to  a 
certain  gamin-like  love  of  teasing  that  was  in  her.  She 
was  a  little  afraid  of  him,  could  laugh  at  some  of  his 
qualities,  she  respected,  pitied,  and  admired  him  all  at 
once,  and  this  combination  of  sensations  that  he  gave  her 
pleased  her  in  its  unusualness.  The  polite  aloofness 
with  which  he  treated  her,  his  evident  disregard  of  her 
beauty,  the  Hebraic  way  in  which  he  viewed  her  posi 
tion,  as  a  woman  who  had  sinned,  had,  however,  hitherto 
prevented  her  feeling  herself  really  drawn  to  like  him 
humanly.  Something  was  lacking,  she  had  not  troubled 
herself  about  what  it  was,  but  he  was  too  remote,  too 
good,  in  spite  of  his  confession  to  her,  for  her  to  have 
more  than  a  mental  feeling  for  him.  Last  night,  the 
Bishop 's  description  of  the  book,  which  already  interest 
ed  her  through  criticisms  she  had  read  of  it,  had  given 
her  a  little  thrill  of  curiosity.  The  man  who  had  writ 
ten  it  had  lived,  and  knew,  according  to  both  the  cleri 
cal  and  the  newspaper  critics,  what  he  was  writing 
about. 

The  phrase  "  a  fragment  torn  by  a  ruthless  hand 
from  the  fabric  of  life,"  had  caught  her  fancy.  She 
would  read  the  book ;  it  might  be  a  bad  one,  but  that,  of 
course,  made  no  difference,  and  it  was  real  and  vivid 
and  full  of  heart-beats. 

Looking  around  the  little  table  as  she  listened  to  the 
177 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

Bishop,  she  thought  with  amusement  of  the  contrast 
the  author  of  the  book  would  afford  to  the  two  good, 
narrow,  conscientious  men  before  her. 

Then,  as  she  roused  herself  at  the  signal  for  depart 
ure,  she  had  glanced  at  Hardy,  and  something  in  his  set, 
dark  face  told  her  that  he  and  no  other  had  written 
"  He  and  Hecuba." 

Without  speaking,  she  accused  him;  without  speak 
ing,  he  neither  admitted  nor  denied ;  he  defied. 

During  her  half  hour's  tete-a-tete  with  Mrs.  Hardy, 
talking  of  measles  and  garden  flowers,  butchers  and  em 
broidery,  her  busy  brain  was  working,  and  though  she 
did  not  again,  in  the  course  of  the  evening,  look  at 
Hardy  otherwise  than  in  the  most  casual  way,  she  knew. 

For  the  first  time  for  years  she  was  excited.  It  was 
so  unusual,  so  utterly  unexpected.  It  was  hardly  credi 
ble  and  yet  it  was  true. 

Of  course  she  considered  the  possibility  of  the  Bish 
op's  having  exaggerated  the  unconventionality  and  the 
reality  of  the  book,  but,  curiously  clinging  to  the  hope 
of  its  being  something  startling,  she  recalled,  as  she  lay 
awake  in  her  big,  dusky  room,  several  of  the  more  severe 
criticism  that  she  had  read.  She  wanted  an  interest  in 
life,  a  real,  living  interest,  and  if  King  Hardy,  the  man 
whose  asceticism  and  unselfish  zeal  in  his  work  had  re 
pulsed  her  emotionally,  while  it  attracted  her  intellect 
ual  admiration,  had  written  this  novel  of  which  every 
one  was  talking,  that  sensation  would  be  hers!  And 
now  as  she  sat  in  the  pony-cart,  she  congratulated  her 
self  warmly. 

178 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

The  interest,  the  sensation  were  hers. 

"  There's  some  cows  corain'  behind  us,  Madame," 
the  groom's  voice  recalled  her  to  herself.  Her  ponies 
disliked  cows,  and  taking  the  reins  she  drove  briskly  up 
the  street  away  from  them. 

She  had  intended  going  around  the  shady  way  to  see 
Mary  Yarrow,  but  the  book  beside  her  held  too  keen  an 
interest  to  be  put  aside. 

In  a  few  minutes  she  sat  again  in  the  yew  arbor, 
which  had  become  a  favorite  lounging-place  of  hers,  and 
\vith  a  big  silver  paper-cutter  slashed  open  the  thick 
ribbed  pages  of  ' '  He  and  Hecuba. "  ' '  Luncheon  is  served, 
Madame."  The  butler  stood  in  a  jagged  spot  of  sun 
shine,  holding  back  a  low  branch. 

"  I  will  come  presently."  She  did  not  look  up,  and 
turned  the  page  as  she  spoke. 

The  cook,  who  had  a  temper,  gave  the  scullery  maid 
a  particularly  bad  quarter  of  an  hour  while  the  luncheon 
shriveled  and  browned  and  no  one  came  to  eat  it.  An 
hour  passed ;  the  cook  was  alone,  the  scullery  maid  being 
in  the  drying  ground,  accepting  consolation  from  an 
under-gardener ;  the  butler  slept  in  his  pantry. 

Then  Madame  Perez  rang,  ordered  a  chop  and  a  glass 
of  claret,  and  while  she  waited  turned  over  again  the 
pages  of  the  book  she  had  just  read.  Her  cheeks  glowed, 
her  eyes  were  bright. 

Hardy  could  play  the  saint,  nurse  measle  patients, 
burn  himself  up  in  village  fires,  and  wear  old  clothes  as 
much  as  he  liked.  He  could  confess  himself  a  sinner, 
could  treat  other  sinners  with  cold  apartness  as  much  as 

179 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

he  liked;  he  could,  in  a  word,  do  everything  he  liked  to 
prove  himself  to  be  that  which  he  was  not. 

She  knew  now  what  he  was.  She  knew  the  possibili 
ties  that  lay  in  him;  she  knew,  as  she  put  it,  from  his 
' '  had  beens, "  his  ' '  could  bes. ' '  She  recalled  him  as  he 
was  physically ;  big,  strongly  built,  dark,  with  the  square 
back  to  his  head,  the  curly,  grizzled  hair,  the  deep-set 
eyes — the  strength  of  his  lean  hands.  She  opened  the 
book  at  the  one  place  where  the  teller  of  the  story  spoke 
of  himself. 

' '  I  love  you, ' '  the  woman  had  said  to  him,  ' '  because 
you  are  big  and  strong  and  have  blood  in  your  veins." 
That  that  had  been  said  to  King  Hardy  Madame  Perez 
knew  with  absolute  certainty.  And  it  threw  a  strange, 
new  light  over  the  man's  personality.  It  had  been  said 
years  before,  but  was  essentially  true  even  to-day;  he 
was  still  big  and  strong,  that  she  had  known.  What  she 
had  not  known,  though  she  now  realized  that  she  must 
owe  her  interest  in  him  to  the  fact  of  her  unconsciously 
feeling  it,  was  that  he  had  what  she  would  call  blood  in 
his  veins. 

That  he  had  written  such  a  book  was  astonishing 
enough  to  interest  any  one ;  that  he  should  have  written 
it  as  he  had,  from  a  view-point  so  diametrically  opposed 
to  the  basis  on  which  he  had  built  his  later  life,  was  what 
brought  to  her  the  tingling  of  impatience  to  see  him,  to 
"  have  it  out  with  him." 

The  dramatic  side  of  her  had  been  in  abeyance  for 
months;  the  quiet  life  among  the  people  she  liked,  and 

180 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

who  were  so  kind  to  her,  had  brought  to  the  surface  most 
of  the  good  in  her  nature,  leaving  the  bad  passive. 

She  was  not  an  actively,  wilfully  bad  woman;  in 
deed,  there  are  in  the  world  comparatively  few  such ;  she 
belonged  to  the  great  class  of  women  who  are  passively 
unprincipled  in  small  things  while  they  believe  them 
selves,  and  are,  for  a  time,  careful  in  great  things. 
"When  the  crisis  comes  to  such  a  woman  it  finds  her,  of 
course,  unprepared  for  resistance,  and  usually  sweeps 
her  away  into  depths  never  contemplated  by  her. 

Rosalba  Perez  had  never  traded  on  her  beauty  as  an 
attraction  to  men ;  used  from  very  early  girlhood  to  sud 
den  prostrate  adorations,  they  had,  in  losing  their  novel 
ty,  lost  all  charm. 

The  average  man  had  no  interest  for  her,  though  she 
was  capable  of  strong  likings,  as  in  Lord  Yarrow's  case. 
Often  she  had  liked  a  man,  admired  and  respected  him, 
to  be  interrupted  in  her  friendship  by  an  abrupt  dec 
laration  of  love  or  unmistakable  signs  of  the  coming  of 
such  a  declaration,  that  destroyed  instantly  the  slightest 
interest  in  the  unlucky  creature  who  had  proved  too 
weak  to  withstand  her  beauty. 

Rich,  she  had  traveled,  amused  herself  after  the 
fashion,  and  taken,  as  a  rule,  each  day  as  it  came,  with  a 
sort  of  stolid  serenity.  Since  her  separation  from  her 
husband  she  had  never  met  a  man  who  caused  her  to 
wish  herself  free,  and  at  last,  giving  up  the  "  compan 
ions  "  she  had  long  taken  around  with  her,  she  had  de 
termined  to  live  the  rest  of  her  life  in  peace  and  allow 

1S1 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

herself  to  be  bored  no  longer  with  those  most  uninterest 
ing  specimens  of  humanity  who  are,  as  a  rule,  the  only 
ones  who  are  inspired  to  offer  themselves  as  company  to 
young  women  in  her  position. 

She  had  known  King  Hardy  for  months,  seen  him 
often,  and  never  seriously  thought  of  him  as  a  possible 
distraction  until  she  read  that  book,  showing  him  in  a 
light  so  strongly  at  variance  with  the  exterior  he  showed 
the  world. 

But  now,  as  she  studied  isolated  bits  of  the  story,  and 
flushed  with  the  sincerity  of  it,  the  desire,  inevitable  in 
a  woman  of  her  stamp,  to  get  behind  the  mask  and  see 
the  real  man,  took  possession  of  her. 

She  had  no  plan  for  making  him  fall  in  love  with 
her;  her  idea  was  to  interest  herself;  to  use  the  unex 
pected  medium  of  entertainment  to  its  fullest  extent. 
A  few  minutes  after  she  had  finished  her  luncheon,  a 
groom  was  riding  up  the  hill  with  a  note  for  Hardy. 


182 


MRS.  HARDY  was  in  the  garden,  kneeling  on  the  grass, 
and  prodding  about  the  roots  of  a  young  climbing-rose 
with  a  pointed  stick.  She  had  no  talent  for  gardening, 
and  often,  in  her  ignorant  zeal,  injured  the  plants  she 
wished  to  help.  Katie,  who  had  "  the  lucky  hand,"  as 
she  herself  called  it,  could  stuff  seeds  into  the  ground 
with  her  thumb,  sprinkle  earth  over  them,  and  in  the 
shortest  possible  time  up  the  shoots  would  come,  strong 
and  flourishing.  Mrs.  Hardy  recognized  the  difference 
between  the  result  of  her  labor  and  that  of  the  girl,  with 
plaintive  wonder,  and  now  that  she  had  a  few  extra 
shillings  to  spend  in  beautifying  the  shabby  little  gar 
den,  she  had  planned  a  radical  change  in  its  appearance, 
and  with  the  help  of  a  book  on  gardening  that  took  for 
granted  a  practically  unlimited  expenditure,  had  begun 
the  day  before  on  her  campaign.  Algy  was  helping  her 
and  a  man  from  the  Point  had  been  busy  all  the  morn 
ing  wheeling  away  barrows  of  earth  and  turf,  for  sev 
eral  new  flower-beds  were  in  the  plan. 

It  was  a  warm  day  in  late  June,  the  sun  shone 
brightly  on  the  dark,  upturned  earth  and  flower-speckled 
length  of  grass,  drawing  a  strong  hot  scent  from  the 
straggling  gilly-flowers  that  were  the  only  floral  relics 
of  former  years. 

183 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

Algy,  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  was  resting,  seated  on  the 
low  wall,  fanning  himself  with  his  hat ;  the  Pointer  was 
gone  for  the  minute. 

Mrs.  Hardy  dug  energetically  at  the  lumpy  earth, 
her  thin  figure  in  its  dark  print  gown  bent  almost  to  the 
ground,  her  thin  hair  hanging  in  wisps,  curly  at  the 
ends,  about  her  reddened  face. 

' '  It  looks  to  me,  mother, ' '  the  boy  began  at  length, 
glancing  at  the  great  plots  of  bare  earth  around  him, 
"as  if  we  have  '  bit  off  rather  more  than  we  can 
chaw.'  " 

' '  Oh,  Algy,  what  a  horrid  expression !  ' ' 

"  American.  I  heard  Tench  use  it  to  father.  I 
mean  that,  after  all,  the  end  of  June  is  late  to  be  plant 
ing  flowers.  And  then  we've  made  such  a  lot  of  beds. 
Those  seeds  won 't  begin  to  fill  'em  up !  ' ' 

His  mother  turned,  tears  of  nervous  vexation  in  her 
eyes.  "  Do  you  think  so?  The  book  said  to  do  it  that 
way,  and  your  father  said  I  might  try.  The  effect  of 
the  solid  masses  of  color  is  so  good  at  Liscom  House. ' ' 

He  laughed.  "  Oh,  Liscom  House.  Those  things 
weren't  set  out  as  seeds!  They  were  half  grown  in  the 
green-house  first.  There  are  four  gardeners  there, 
too." 

"  If  you  are  tired,  dear,"  she  began,  but  he  jumped 
down  from  the  wall  and  took  up  his  spade  with  energy. 
"  I'm,  not  tired,  only  it's  hot.  You  look  tired,  though. 
Let's  stop  when  that  one  bed  is  cut  straight.  We  can't 
plant  things  in  this  heat,  anyhow." 

Mrs.  Hardy  rose.  *'  I  know.  Well — dear  me,  I  am 
184 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

stiff.  Of  course  those  plants  at  Liscom  aren't  seedlings. 
And  of  course  ours  won't  be  like  them,  only — it  would 
be  so  nice  to  have  the  garden  a  little  pretty,  wouldn't 
it?  " 

The  boy  nodded.  ' '  I  wish  our  yew  could  be  clipped. 
That  arbor  where  she  reads  is  stunning." 

"  Where  who  reads?  "  asked  his  mother,  absently 
looking  at  a  man  riding  up  the  hill. 

"  Madame  Perez.  The  tree  is  bent  over,  the  boughs, 
and  clipped  into  a  little  house.  She  has  a  chair  in  it, 
and  there's  a  table  on  one  of  the  branches.  It's  a  rip 
ping  place." 

"  He's  coming  here,  Algy — run  to  the  path — it's  a 
note,"  she  interrupted,  pulling  down  her  sleeves  in 
stinctively.  The  boy  came  running  up  the  path,  carry 
ing  the  note  gingerly  in  his  earthy  hands. 

"  It's  for  father,  from  her.  '  Speaking  of  angels,' 
eh?  Shall  I  take  it  in?  The  man  is  waiting  for  an 
answer. ' ' 

Mrs.  Hardy  took  it,  and  instead  of  entering  the  house 
went  to  the  window  on  the  right  of  the  door,  and  pushed 
it  open.  "  King!  "  she  called. 

Hardy  came  to  the  window,  a  pipe  in  his  mouth. 
"  What  is  it?  " 

She  gave  him  the  note.  "  From  Madame  Perez;  the 
groom  is  waiting.  What  pretty  paper,  King!  "  He 
tore  it  open  and  read  it  hastily. 

"  What  does  she  say?  " 

"  I  must  send  an  answer,"  he  returned,  withdrawing 
into  the  room.  As  he  did  so  his  sleeve  caught  in  the  cur- 

185 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

tain,  the  note  fell  from  his  hand,  and  after  fluttering 
for  a  minute  over  the  window  sill,  dropped  to  her  feet. 

Stooping,  she  picked  it  up.  "  What  a  dear  little 
monogram !  Gray  paper  is  very  smart  now.  I  read  it  in 
the  '  Queen  '  only  yesterday. 

' '  Give  it  me, ' '  he  said,  holding  out  his  hand. 

"  Mayn't  I  read  it?    It's  such  a  curious  hand " 

"  Give  it  me,  Abby, "  he  repeated  in  a  repressed 
voice  that  caused  her  to  look  up  from  her  inspection  of 
the  stationery.  He  was  frowning  fiercely,  his  invisible 
mouth,  she  knew  by  the  lines  near  it,  tightly  closed. 

"  Why,  King,"  she  faltered,  obeying  him  instantly, 
"  I  didn't  mean  to  annoy  you." 

Tearing  the  letter  across  he  crumpled  it  up,  and, 
stuffing  it  in  his  pocket,  came  out  into  the  sunlight. 

11  Algy,  tell  the  man  I  say  '  very  well.'  That  will 
do." 

Then,  as  the  boy  left  them,  he  went  on  quickly,  tak 
ing  his  wife's  hand:  "  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  dear,  for 
being  so — fierce." 

"  Oh,  never  mind.  I  really  wasn't  curious — I  mean 
— about  what  she  wrote.  Only  the  paper  was  so  pretty, 
and  the  writing  so  queer.  I  suppose  you  thought  I  was 
ill-bred?  " 

' '  No, ' '  he  answered,  truthfully,  ' '  I  didn  't  want  you 
to  read  the  note,  that  was  all. ' ' 

u  I  know,  I  know.  I  have  never  been  curious  about 
your  private  business,  have  I?  Of  course,  a  clergyman 
has  parish  business  and  confidences  made  him. ' ' 

He  watched  her  and  saw  that,  though  she  spoke 
186 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

bravely,  a  little  demon  of  suspicion  had  sprung  from  the 
incident.  The  demon,  he  knew,  could  be  consigned  to 
everlasting  oblivion  by  a  word  from  him  now.  At  length 
he  spoke.  "  This  has  nothing  to  do  with  parish  work, 
Abby,  and  nothing  to  do  with  a  'confidence'  made  in 
me.  It  was  merely  a  note  asking  me  to  come  and  see 
her  this  afternoon." 

The  demon  grew  to  full  proportion  as  he  spoke;  she 
was  over-tired  and  warm;  her  garden  projects  seemed 
suddenly  utterly  impracticable;  tears  came  to  her  eyes. 

"  Are  you  going  to  the  yew-arbor?  "  she  asked  hope 
lessly. 

He  started.  "  The  yew-arbor?  What  on  earth  do 
you  know  about  the  yew-arbor?  "  he  asked,  in  surprise. 

"  Algy  told  me.  It  must  be  lovely  there;  so  cool. 
And  I  am  so  tired  and  hot  and — old." 

The  last  word  was  almost  a  break-down,  and  filled 
him  with  compunction  for  his  unnecessary  frankness. 
For  after  all  his  frankness  had  been  merely  nominal. 
He  had  no  reason  for  concealing  from  his  wife  his  proj 
ect  of  drinking  a  cup  of  tea  with  Madame  Perez;  and 
his  reason  for  destroying  the  note  was  that  in  it  she  had 
made  a  reference  to  the  book,  and  he  could  not  tell  Abby 
that  he  purposed,  however  much  against  his  will,  talk 
ing  the  book  over  with  the  woman  who,  with  her,  had 
heard  the  Bishop's  condemnation  of  it. 

But  it  was  impossible  to  explain  without  lying,  and 
though  he  was  letting  her  suffer  the  pangs  of  a  perfectly 
unnecessary  jealousy,  his  conscience,  while  it  allowed 
him  the  falsehood,  kept  him  dumb  on  the  subject. 
13  187 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

"  Poor  girl,  you  are  done  up,"  he  said,  gently,  put 
ting  his  arm  about  her  thin  shoulders,  and  leading  her 
into  the  house.  "  You  must  lie  down  for  a  while,  and 
I'll  have  Katie  make  you  a  cup  of  tea.  Shall  II  " 

"  Oh,  King!  Come  and  sit  with  me,  will  you?  I 
— I  don't  feel  well."  Her  implicit  faith  in  him  could 
not  be  shaken  by  such  a  trifle,  but  she  was  profoundly 
troubled  and  too  awkward  to  do  any  of  the  innocent 
pumping  another  woman  might  have  resorted  to.  She 
put  on  a  dressing-gown  and  lay  down  on  the  bed,  while 
he,  still  stung  by  a  remorse  which  the  poor  soul  recog 
nized,  and  naturally  attributed  to  a  false  source,  sat  by 
her  and  told  her  all  the  little  scraps  of  news  that  he 
could  recall. 

The  Tenches  had  a  new  stair  carpet ;  red.  Molly  Kit- 
terick's  baby  had  an  inflammation  of  the  eyes  that 
threatened  blindness;  the  Cricket  Club  Tea  was  to  be 
the  following  Tuesday;  Lord  Yarrow  was  very  weak — 
they  could  only  hope  that  he  would  live  to  see  his 
baby. 

At  length,  when  he  rose,  she  gathered  her  courage 
together  and  said:  "  Remember  me  to  Madame  Perez, 
King,  and  tell  her  not  to  forget  her  promise  to  come  to 
tea  some  time."  It  was  a  great  effort  and  he  appre 
ciated  it. 

"  I  '11  tell  her,  dear.  I  'm  sorry  I  can 't  explain  about 
the  note,  but  I  can't."  He  kissed  her  kindly  and  went 
his  way — to  the  yew-arbor,  as  she  had  guessed. 

He  had  not  yet  read  his  book;  a  pile  of  letters  and 
papers  having  awaited  him  on  his  return  home,  and  a 

188 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

half-finished  sermon  for  the  next  day  claiming  the  rest 
of  his  time,  rather  to  his  satisfaction,  for  he  did  not 
care  to  analyze  his  reluctancy  to  read  what  he  had 
written. 

When  he  drew  back  the  bough  that  served  as  door 
to  the  arbor,  and  entered  its  cool  gloom,  Madame  Perez 
looked  up  and  held  out  her  left  hand  to  him. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Herbert  Branscombe,"  she  said, 
lazily. 

' '  Then  you  do  know. ' '  He  let  the  branch  fall  to  its 
place,  shutting  him  in  with  this  woman  who  knew  his  se 
cret,  in  whose  hands  lay  his  honor  before  the  world, 
and  whom  he  began  to  fear. 

"  Yes,  I  know.  And  I  wonder  if  you  know  what  a 
wonderful  man  you  are?  " 

11  II  A  wonderful  man?  No.  I  certainly  do  not 
know  that."  He  sat  down  on  the  one  vacant  chair  and 
dropped  his  hat  to  the  ground. 

' '  But  that  is  what  you  are.  You  have  not  only  lived 
a  tragedy,  but  you  have  known  how  to  make  other 
people,  in  reading  your  book,  live  it,  too !  ' ' 

He  did  not  answer.  The  feeling  of  helplessness,  of 
being  in  a  prison  with  one  who  was  going  to  be  his  tor 
turer,  grew  stronger.  The  smell  of  the  pines  by  which 
they  were  surrounded  was  heavy  in  the  late  afternoon 
sun ;  a  bird  outside  sang  discordantly ;  the  burring  noise 
of  a  lawn-mower  reached  his  ears. 

Madame  Perez  sat  leaning  back,  her  half-bare  arms 
resting  on  the  arms  of  the  chair  shining  white  in  the 
strange  light,  her  hands  quietly  clasped  under  her  chin. 

189 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

"  It  is  too  bad,"  she  went  on,  slowly,  after  a  pause, 
"  that  you  published  anonymously." 

' '  I  could  do  nothing  else, ' '  he  returned,  stiffly. 

She  laughed.  "  Oh,  yes.  The  book,  as  a  book,  is 
great  enough  to  bear  abuse.  They  will  soon  forget  the 
parts  they — disapprove,  and  remember  only  the  great 
ness  of  it.  You,  even  as  a  priest,  could  have  lived  it 
down. ' ' 

"  It  is  not  a  great  book.  And  it  seems  to  be  one  that 
no  clergyman  had  a  right  to  publish ' 

She  caught  the  peculiarity  of  his  phrasing.  "  '  It 
seems  to  be.'  What  do  you  mean?  You  ought  to  have 
your  own  opinion  about  it." 

"  You  have  no  right  to  catechize  me,  Madame — Mrs. 
Woodvil,  but  as  long  as  you  have  guessed,  I  will  tell  you, 
before  we  close  the  subject  for  good,  that  I  have  no  opin 
ion  about  the  book's  harmfulness,  because  I  have — for 
gotten  it." 

"  Forgotten  it!  "  Her  hands  dropped,  and  she  half 
rose  in  her  surprise. 

"  Yes.  I — of  course  I  remember  the  story,  but  I 
have  forgotten  how  I  told  it,  and  that  seems  to  be  its 
chief  cause  of  complaint.  When  I  finished  it — that 
night  after  the  dinner  at  the  Yarrows,  I  was  not  in  a 
condition  to  know  quite  what  I  wrote — I  mean, ' '  he  cor 
rected  himself,  "  I  was  drunk.  Then " 

"  Then?  "  she  repeated,  breathlessly. 

"  Then,  I  have  not  tried  to  recall  it.  It  is  too— 
painful  to  me." 

"I  see." 

190 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

After  a  pause,  he  said,  slowly.  ' '  You  have  read  it ; 
what  do  you  think  of  it?  " 

"  I  told  you.    It  is — wonderful." 

"  Yes,  but — the  Bishop  was  very  severe.  Is  it — as 
bad  as  that?  "  His  eyes  were  fixed  eagerly  on  hers;  he 
had  gripped  his  hands  tight  about  his  knee ;  she  saw  the 
knuckles  whiten. 

"  Of  course  my  point  of  view  is  not  the  same  as  the 
Bishop's,"  she  answered,  "  and — what  value  can  my 
opinion  have  for  you?  "  Her  voice  changed  to  one  of 
bitterness  as  she  spoke.  "  You  have  not  spared  me,  Mr. 
Hardy;  you  have  showed  me  plainly  what  you  think  of 
me — why  should  you  care  what  I  think  of  you  ?  ' ' 

"  I  didn't  ask  you  what  you  think  of  me.  I  asked 
you  what  you  think  of  my  book." 

"  And  your  book  is  you — or  rather  Branscombe  is — 
and  you  are  Branscombe." 

His  brows  drew  together  as  if  in  sudden  pain. 

"  I  trust  to  God  that  I  am  no  longer  Brans 
combe.  ' ' 

"  But  you  are.  That  is  just  it.  You  can't  help  it. 
You  can  bury — starve  Branscombe — do  what  you  will ; 
he  is  there,  living,  and  you  can't  kill  him.  And  why, 
in  Heaven's  name,  should  you  try  ?  He  was  a  man  '  with 
blood  in  his  veins  ' — he  loved,  he  felt!  "  Her  slight 
accent  grew  stronger  in  her  excitement. 

"  And  I?  Do  I  not  live,  do  I  not  feel?  Ah;  yes,  I 
feel,  whatever  you  may  say." 

"  Feel,  yes.  Pain,  hunger,  sleep — what  have  you 
felt  beyond  these  physical  sentiments  for  years?  Have 

191 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

you  ever  felt  the — the  joy,  the  rapture  that  was  his — 
yours — that  morning  in  the  olive  grove,  for  instance?  " 

Hardy  rose.  "  All  this  is  quite  useless,"  he  said, 
quietly.  "  You  have  discovered  my  secret,  and  will  be 
tray  it  or  keep  it  as  you  choose.  I  do  not  wish  to  discuss 
my  past  life  with  you — or  with  any  one — so  I  will  go. 
Good-by." 

Before  she  could  answer  he  was  gone.  He  was  gone, 
but  he  was  still  there !  That  was  the  advantage  she  had 
over  him.  He  was  there  in  the  red  book. 


192 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

LORD  YARROW  lay  in  bed,  facing  the  windows,  which 
were  open,  and  framed  the  glories  of  a  midsummer  sun 
set. 

Across  the  bars  of  crimson  and  gold  that  melted 
softly  into  purple  as  he  watched,  birds  flew,  black  as 
ink;  a  larch  off  to  the  left,  still  hung  with  rain  drops, 
glittered  and  gleamed,  each  separate  leaf  edged  with 
fire. 

"  Dear  old  place." 

Lady  Yarrow,  sitting  in  a  big  chair  by  the  bed, 
started  up  as  her  husband  spoke.  "  What  is  it,  dear?  " 

"  Nothing.  But  I  do  love  the  old  place,  Mary.  It 
was  kind  of  you  to  come  here  to  live.  Most  women 
would  have  insisted  on  Yarrow." 

"  I  liked  this  better,  Borrow,"  she  answered,  sim 
ply,  ' '  and  I  love  it  better  every  day. ' ' 

"  Shall  you  stay  on?  "  he  asked,  after  a  pause,  dur 
ing  which  the  light  faded  from  the  larch,  leaving  it  a 
darkening  mass  against  the  paling  sky. 

"  Yes,  dear,"  she  returned.  She  knew  what  he 
meant,  and  that  nothing  troubled  him  more  than  an 
emotional  acceptance  of  such  remarks. 

193 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

"  But,  if  it's  a  boy,  when  he's  of  age,  he  will  want 
to  live  there.  It  will  be  perfectly  natural,  for,  of  course, 
it 's  a  much  more  splendid  place  than  this. ' ' 

Turning,  she  laid  her  hand  on  his  and  smiled  at  him. 
"  Then  '  he  '  may  go,  and  I  will  stay  here;  and  if  he 
should  be  a  she?  " 

"  For  your  sake  I  could  almost  wish  it — a  daughter 
means  so  much  more  to  a  woman — but  the  old  race  must 
continue,  Mary.  I  am  almost  sure  it  will  be  a  boy,  and 
the  feeling  makes  me  so  happy.  By  the  way,  is  the 
jessamine — all  right?  " 

"  The  jessamine!  what  makes  you  think  of  that?  " 

"  Oh — it  came  into  my  head.  I  like  the  old  thing, 
you  know.  Have  you  noticed  it  of  late?  " 

She  shook  her  head.  "  No,  I've  not  been  in  the 
walled  garden  for — ever  since  you  have  been  in  bed. ' ' 

"  And  that  is — ten  days?  " 

"  A  fortnight  to-day,  dear." 

The  glory  had  faded  from  the  windows ;  the  sky,  still 
pale  rose  color,  was  melting  into  gray;  the  birds  had 
disappeared.  The  scent  of  roses  came  up  to  them  from 
the  garden,  the  sound  of  a  woman's  voice  singing  in  the 
distance. 

"  What  day  is  this?  "  Yarrow  asked  at  length,  clos 
ing  his  hand  gently  around  his  wife's.  "  I  mean  the 
date." 

"  It  is  the  14th  of  August." 

' '  So,  the  glorious  twelfth  is  over !  I  have  something 
to  tell  you,  Mary." 

"  Yes?    I  wonder  what  it  can  be." 
194 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

"  I  had  Jarvis  telegraph  to  Woodvil  to  come  down 
some  day  this  week." 

' '  Is  he  still  in  England?  I  thought  he  said  he  was 
going  to  India." 

' '  lie  did.  I — asked  him  to  put  off  going  for  a  little 
while." 

Again  understanding,  she  said  nothing. 

"  You  needn't  see  him,  of  course,  if  you  don't  care 
to.  But — he  is  my  oldest  and  dearest  friend.  You  un 
derstand." 

"  Yes.  Whatever  you  do  is  right.  Whatever  you 
have  done  all  your  life  has  been  right.  I  don't  believe 
any  woman  who  ever  lived  has  been  so  proud  of  her  hus 
band  as  I  am  of  mine. ' '  The  voice  was  very  steady,  per 
haps  a  little  too  steady. 

' '  My  dear  girl !  What  I  want  you  to  remember, 
when  the  time  comes,  and  you  are  sorrowing  for  me,  is 
that  you  have  made  me  perfectly  happy.  That  every 
minute  since  you  married  me  I  have  thanked  God  for 
letting  you  do  so.  We  have  never  talked  much  about  it, 
but  you  know  that  I  always  understood,  and  you  mustn't 
forget  that  my  greatest  wish  as  a  dying  man,  is  that  you 
may  be  happy." 

She  could  not  speak  now,  and  bent  her  head  in  si 
lence  over  his  hand,  remaining  thus  awhile  in  the  solemn 
silence  of  the  evening  and  the  room  so  soon  to  be  a 
death  chamber.  At  length  he  moved  his  hand  gently, 
and  she  leaned  back  in  her  chair. 

"  I  wish  you  would  go  and  walk  a  little  now,  dear," 
he  said,  gently.  ' '  It  will  do  you  good.  Go  into  the  dear 

195 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

little   walled    garden   and    bring    me    a   bit    of   jessa 
mine." 

11  I  never  go  there  now,"  she  protested,  rising.  "  I 
always  go  to  the  terrace. ' ' 

"  But  if  I  ask  you?  And  I  want  the  bit  of  jessa 
mine." 

She  left  the  room  slowly,  and  until  she  came  back,  he 
lay  wondering  half  feverishly  about  the  jessamine.  He 
was  not  a  superstitious  man,  but  a  faint  belief  in  this 
particular  superstition  was  in  his  blood,  and  now  as  he 
lay  in  the  dusk,  watching  the  darkness  come  in  at  the 
windows,  he  longed  for  her  return  with  an  almost  sick 
ening  eagerness. 

The  two  angels  were  drawing  so  near,  he  thought.  It 
was  a  race  between  them;  his  imagination  almost  saw 
them  soaring  towards  the  house  across  the  pale  sky,  the 
black  and  the  white  wings  outspread.  If  only  the  white 
wings  proved  the  better!  If  only  the  white  angel 
reached  the  goal  first ! 

He  could  welcome  the  other  then  with  serenity.  His 
man  came  in  and  went  to  the  windows  to  close  them. 
' '  Wait  a  little,  Jarvis.  Give  me  ten  minutes. ' '  Before 
the  ten  minutes  were  over  Mary  had  come  in. 

' '  It  is  such  a  beautiful  evening, ' '  she  said,  ' '  but  the 
windows  must  be  shut  now,  it  is  growing  cooler."  She 
rang  as  she  spoke. 

' '  Mary — you  were  there — in  the  walled  garden  ?  ' ' 

"Yes,  dear." 

"  Did  you  bring  me ?  " 

"Yes." 

196 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

"  Is  the — the  whole  plant  healthy?  No — dead 
branches?  " 

"  No,"  she  answered,  faintly  surprised,  "  it  is  cov 
ered  with  flowers." 

She  put  into  his  hand  a  little  damp  spray,  the  scent 
of  which  reached  him  at  once. 

In  his  weakness  he  could  barely  restrain  the  "  thank 
God  "  that  would  have  seemed  so  disproportionate  to 
her. 

The  days  passed  slowly,  each  one  taking  with  it  a  lit 
tle  of  his  strength,  bringing  with  it  a  clearer  vision  of 
the  two  angels. 

They  seemed  to  him  to  be  winging  their  steady  way 
from  afar,  and  that  his  eyes  only  were  clear  enough  to 
see  them. 

His  bedroom  was  in  a  wing,  and  by  shoving  his  bed 
a  little  out  of  its  place  early  in  the  morning,  his  nurses 
gave  him  the  happiness  of  seeing  the  sun  rise  every  day. 

And  in  the  morning,  in  the  glow  so  different  from 
that  of  the  evening,  the  two  angels  were  as  visible  as 
they  were  when  the  sun  had  gone  down.  They  grew 
more  distinct  as  time  passed.  He  even  saw  them  during 
the  day,  and  he  never  mentioned  them  to  any  one,  partly 
because  he  perfectly  recognized  that  they  were  a  hallu 
cination  ;  partly  because  they  were  very  sacred  to  him. 

About  a  week  after  the  picking  of  the  jessamine, 
Woodvil  came.  It  was  evening  when  he  arrived,  and 
when  he  entered  the  room  Yarrow  did  not  at  first  notice 
him. 

The  sick  man  lay  with  his  eyes  fixed  to  the  sky,  which 
197 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

was  brilliant  but  massed  with  purple  clouds  which  pre 
saged  a  storm. 

Woodvil  stood  quite  still,  watching  the  face  of  his 
friend,  and  drawing  deep  breaths  to  steady  the  voice  he 
knew  would  shake  when  he  spoke. 

At  length,  however,  as  Yarrow  did  not  move,  the 
man  in  the  door  was  taken  with  a  little  shiver  of  terror, 
and,  hoarsely,  he  spoke  the  other 's  name. 

' '  Woodvil !  Dear  old  boy !  Do  you  see,  the  white 
one  is  ahead!  " 

Then,  quietly,  he  explained,  as  he  could  not  have 
done  a  week  ago,  what  he  meant. 

The  two  men  sat  talking  in  low  voices  for  a  long 
time.  Jarvis  closed  the  windows,  lighted  one  lamp,  and 
left  them  alone.  They  talked  of  their  boyhood,  the 
greater  part  of  which  had  been  passed  together;  of  the 
old  school  in  Paris,  the  holidays  at  Yarrow  and  at 
Brighton,  where  the  then  Lord  Yarrow  had  a  house. 

"  Do  you  remember  how  your  mother  danced  for  us 
once  ?  And  how  lovely  her  foot  was  in  the  pink  shoes  ?  ' ' 

Woodvil  nodded.  ' '  Don 't  I  ?  Do  you  remember  the 
boat  your  father  gave  us,  that  we  named  the  Laura  for 
that  little  red-haired  imp  of  Farrar's?  " 

On  and  on  they  talked,  laughing  at  times,  at  times 
pausing.  At  length  the  sick  man,  after  a  longer  pause 
than  usual,  began  with  a  new  note  in  his  voice: 
"  Jacques,  there  is  something  I  must  say  to  you." 

"  Then— why  don't  you?  " 

"  Because  it  is  going  to  be  hard  for  me  to  say,  and 
harder  for  you  to  listen  to.  But  I  must  say  it,  so  here 
goes.  Why  don't  you  divorce — that  woman?  " 

198 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

Woodvil  started.    "  I  am  a  Catholic,  George." 

"  I  know.  But — there  is  one  ground  on  which  your 
Church  recognizes  divorce. ' ' 

' '  Yes.  Well,  I  '11  tell  you.  When — it  happened,  she 
was  only  eighteen,  and  I  had  misunderstood  her  and 
treated  her  in  the  wrong  way — it  was  my  own  fault, 
more  than  hers.  No  one  knew  about  it;  there  was  no 
particular  scandal;  every  one  had  known  that  we  didn't 
get  on  well  together,  and — we  had  been  in  the  country — 
no  one  had  suspected  anything  else.  The  man  was  her 
cousin  and  had  always  been  about  the  house.  She  went 
back  to  her  people,  and  I — to  Patagonia,  as  you  remem 
ber.  Afterwards — she  had  taken  her  father's  name 
again  and  was  living  at  home — there  was  no  use  in  mak 
ing  a  row.  Unless  I  had  made  a  public  scandal  I  could 
not  have  got  a  decree,  so  I  let  it  drop. ' ' 

' '  But — in  case  you  had  wished  to  marry  ?  ' ' 

The  other  man  was  silent  for  a  few  minutes,  his  mo 
bile,  fine-cut  face  a  little  white  in  the  faint  light. 

"  After  I  had  let  it  drop  for  so  long,  I  had  no  right, 
for  ends  of  my  own,  to  retract  the — pardon  I  had  given 
her." 

"  I  think,"  said  Yarrow,  very  distinctly,  as  he  fin 
ished,  "  that  you  have  been  wrong  all  along.  You  have 
a  right  to  your  own  life — you  ought  to  do  it  now,  and  be 
a  free  man — to  begin  again." 

"  Borrowdaile!  " 

"  Yes,  Jacques,  I  know,  but  you  must  let  me  speak, 
old  boy.  You  love  her  still,  you  know  you  do." 

"  That  has  nothing  to  do  with  it." 
199 


HE    AND    HECUBA 

' '  But  it  has.  I  am  dying.  She  has  been  an  angel  to 
me;  she  will  mourn  me  very  sincerely;  but — Jacques — 
must  I  say  it  ?  She  loves  you. ' ' 

Woodvil  groaned.  "  No,  no,  don't!  Yarrow — you 
mustn  't. ' ' 

"  I  must.  In  a  way  you  are  right.  It  will  be  hard 
on  her,  on  the  poor  little  Spaniard — but  it  is  a  case  of 
the  survival  of  the  fittest.  I  must  fight  for — my  own. 
Some  day  you  must  tell  Mary — all  this. ' '  "Woodvil  was 
silent. 

Yarrow  had  always  been  unlike  other  men,  but  this 
was  almost  impossible  to  meet. 

Woodvil  had  just  arranged  a  meaningless  phrase  to 
say  when  the  door  opened  and  Lady  Yarrow  appeared 
in  a  dressing-gown.  "  I  have  come  to  say  good-night, 
dear." 

Yarrow  roused  himself.  "  The  white  angel,"  he 
murmured,  and  then,  with  an  effort  of  will,  took  in  the 
situation.  "  Mary,  dear — Woodvil  is  here." 

"  Ah."  Without  shyness  she  came  in,  her  flowing 
gown  brushing  over  the  carpet,  and  held  out  her  hand. 
"  It  is  kind  of  you  to  come. ' '  Then  she  went  to  the  bed, 
kissed  her  husband,  and  left  the  room. 

'  When  the  sun  rises, ' '  Yarrow  went  on,  as  the  door 
closed,  "  I'll  have  them  call  you,  and  I'll  show  you  the 
angels. ' ' 


200 


CHAPTER   XXV 

"  WHATEVER  you  may  say,  Charles,"  observed  Mrs. 
Dudley,  turning  the  cock  of  the  coffee-urn  with  a  little 
jerk,  "  I  consider  it  really  indecent  of  her." 

The  Rector  laughed.  "  Poor  Mary!  First  you  find 
her  skirts  indecent,  and  now  her  conduct. ' ' 

"  And  you,  of  course,  think  that  everything  she  does 
is  right." 

"  Everything!  That  would  be  going  pretty  far, 
wouldn't  it?  No,  I  shouldn't  say  that,  but  I  like  her 
skirts — I  like  the  way  they — bulge  out  about  her  feet — 
and  in  this  particular  case  I  don't  see  how  she  is  to  be 
blamed!  " 

The  sun  shone  in  at  the  open  windows,  glancing  on 
the  old  silver  and  the  delicate  china  that  the  Rector 
loved,  drawing  flashes  of  light  from  the  gilded  frames 
of  the  portraits  on  the  green  and  white  striped  walls, 
and  sweetness  from  the  window  boxes  of  heliotrope. 
The  Rector,  whose  chair  was  near  one  of  the  windows, 
reached  out  his  thin,  old  hand  and  broke  off  a  little  tuft 
of  the  purple  sweetness  as  he  spoke.  He  was  very  fond 
of  heliotrope,  and  had  a  way  of  wearing  a  bit  in  his  but 
tonhole,  which  his  wife  condemned  as  unsuitable. 

Mrs.  Dudley  watched  him  for  a  minute  as  he  sniffed 
at  his  flower,  and  then  remarked,  "  I  have  frequently 

201 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

told  you,  Charles,  that  it  is  dangerous  to  smell  flowers 
in  that  way.  There  are  often  insects  on  them,  and  they 
sometimes  go  up  the  nose.  A  cousin  of  my  mother's  suf 
fered  greatly  once  from  having  a  little  beast  up  her  nose. 
It  laid  eggs  in  the  mucous  membrane,  and  was  very  tire 
some,  indeed." 

The  Rector  knew  the  story,  and  laid  his  heliotrope 
on  the  table. 

' '  I  'd  like  some  coffee,  Rebecca, ' '  he  said,  shoving  his 
cup  towards  her. 

He  always  drank  two  cups,  and  never  without  a  pro 
test  on  her  part. 

He  awaited  the  protest,  and  it  came.  "  Coffee  is  so 
bad  for  the  nerves,  Charles,  and  you  are  nearly  seventy. 
I  read  yesterday  an  account  of  a  new  kind  of  malt  coffee 
that  they  say  is  not  only  excellent  for  the  health,  but 
also  very  delicious." 

"  Thank  you,  thank  you,  my  dear,  but  I  think  I'll 
continue  to  take  my  malt  in  my  beer,"  he  interrupted, 
hastily.  "  Ah,  what  is  that — some  one  galloping." 

A  groom  drew  up  outside  the  windows. 

"  Good  morning,  sir.  If  you  please,  Mr.  Dudley,  I 
was  to  tell  you  that  it's  a  boy,  and  Her  Ladyship  is  do 
ing  well." 

"A  boy!  Thank  God!  Go  to  the  kitchen,  Roger, 
and  tell  them  to  give  you  some  beer.  Rebecca,  it's  a 
boy,  bless  its  heart!" 

Mrs.  Dudley  poured  the  cream  into  his  coffee  with 
a  severe  face. 

' '  And  that  man  in  the  house !  ' ' 
202 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

"  She  could  hardly  have  put  it  off,  could  she?  "  the 
old  man  interrupted,  frivolously.  "  No,  no,  no  more 
coffee,  thanks.  I  must  go  and  see  George.  Thank  God 
he  has  lived  to  see  it." 

He  rose  and  going  to  his  wife  raised  her  red  face 
with  his  hand.  "  You  are  glad,  Rebecca,  you  know  you 
are.  Give  me  a  kiss!  " 

"  I  am  glad,  of  course.  But  at  least  get  that  man 
out  of  the  house,  Charles,  if  you  have  to  ask  him  to  stop 
here.  It  is — unseemly." 

The  Rector  dropped  his  chin  and  sighed.  "  Un 
seemly  for  poor  George  to  want  to  see  his  oldest  friend 
on  his  deathbed!  I  can  not  see  it." 

"  Everybody  knows  that  he  was  wildly  in  love  with 
her  and  she  with  him.  No  doubt  they  still  are,  and  even 
if  they  aren't — 

Mr.  Dudley  hurried  out  of  the  room.  He  considered 
himself  to  be  unduly  sharp-tongued  when  roused,  and 
he  was  roused  now. 

Down  the  road  he  trotted,  his  hat  under  his  arm,  the 
mottled  shadows  of  the  trees  edging  the  dusty  way 
glancing  on  his  soft  white  hair  and  pink  bald  spot. 
Twice  he  stopped  to  speak  to  some  one  he  met;  once  to 
the  doctor,  who,  tired  after  his  sleepless  night,  was  am 
bling  homeward  on  his  old  bay  mare. 

' '  A  boy,  Tench,  a  boy !  ' '  the  Rector  cried,  forget 
ting  that  Tench  knew  all  about  it. 

"  A  particularly  fine  boy,  Mr.  Dudley,  with  the  Yar 
row  head  and  a  voice  like  a — I  don't  know  what.     He 
roared  so  that  we  all  laughed,  even  Her  Ladyship." 
14  203 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

''And  she?    Is  she  all  right?  " 

"  Perfectly.  It  is  a  very  sound  nature.  She'll  be 
about  in  no  time." 

"  And  Lord  Yarrow?  " 

The  little  doctor  hesitated  and  looked  off  across  the 
meadow  to  his  right,  on  which  several  cows  were  grazing, 
knee-deep  in  moist-looking  clover. 

' '  His  Lordship  is  very  weak,  you  know.  But — never 
in  my  life,  Mr.  Dudley,  have  I  had  such  pleasure  as  I  had 
when  I  told  him.  He  was  lying  watching  the  sun  rise — 
we  had  not  told  him  his  wife  was  ill — and  when  I  came 
in  he  did  not  seem  to  find  anything  strange  in  my  being 
there  at  that  hour.  It  is  a  very  beautiful  face,  Mr.  Dud 
ley,  do  you  not  think  so?  " 

"  I  do,  indeed,  Tench;  go  on." 

"  His  Lordship  had,  several  times,  in  a  sort  of  wan 
dering  he  is  subject  to — resultant  from  weakness — said 
something  about  angels.  It  seems  that  there  are  two  an 
gels — I  don't  quite  understand,  but  he  has  mentioned 
them  more  than  once  in  my  hearing.  I  gave  him  a  glass 
of  a  tonic  wine  first,  and  then — I  told  him.  He  smiled 
at  me,  and  then  said  something  I  didn't  catch,  but  for 
the  word  angel.  After  a  bit,  tears  came  to  his  eyes  and 
rolled  down  his  cheeks — I  shall  never  forget  it." 

The  Rector  held  out  his  hand.  "  Thanks  for  telling 
me.  I  am  going  there  now;  I  may  see  him  for  a  few 
minutes,  I  suppose?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  certainly.     Good-by,  Mr.  Dudley." 

The  two  men  parted,  the  good  doctor  leaning 
limply  over  his  horse's  neck,  the  Eector  almost  dancing 

204 


HE    AND    HECUBA 

down  the  sun-speckled  road,  his  bowed  legs  and  slight 
frame  nearly  grotesque  in  their  excessive  thinness.  As 
he  entered  the  village  he  met  Hardy. 

"  Heard  the  news?  "  he  cried,  while  the  younger 
man  was  still  at  some  distance. 

' '  No.  What  is  it  1  I  have  just  come  from  the  Point. 
A  man  was  killed  there  last  night  in  a  drunken  quarrel.'* 

"  Oh,  dear  me,  dear  me!  "  The  Rector  never  heard 
of  a  case  of  drunkenness  without  reproaching  himself 
his  one  glass  of  ale  or  beer  per  day,  and  feeling  that  he 
ought  to  abandon  it. 

"  Yes.  What  is  your  news?  Something  agreeable, 
I  should  say."  Hardy's  dark,  tired  face  softened  as  he 
looked  down  into  the  old  man's  excited  blue  eyes. 

' '  Yarrow  has  a  boy !    A  boy !  ' ' 

They  stood  talking  for  a  few  minutes,  leaning  against 
the  railing  of  the  little  bridge,  under  which  the  water, 
worn  to  a  mere  thread  by  long  heat  and  drought,  held 
its  silent  way. 

"  Yarrow's  friend,  Jacques  Woodvil,  is  there,"  Mr. 
Dudley  went  on.  "  Mrs.  Dudley  says  I  must  dispose  of 
him  in  some  way.  He  came  last  night,  I  believe." 

' '  Yes,  I  met  him  on  his  way  from  the  station.  Lord 
Yarrow  sent  for  him,  he  told  me.  He  expected  to  go 
back  to  London  to-day  or  to-morrow. ' ' 

"  Ah!  That  will  please  Rebecca.  Rebecca  found  his 
being  there — queer." 

Hardy  nodded  without  speaking.  He  knew  Rebecca. 
A  few  minutes  later  Mr.  Dudley  was  dancing  up  the 
avenue  at  Borrowdaile  House,  singing  to  himself,  as  was 

205 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

his  way  when  very  happy,  a  few  bars  from  "Hear  me, 
Norma. ' ' 

The  house  door  was  open,  the  butler  standing  near  it, 
talking  to  the  housekeeper.  After  mutual  congratula 
tions  Lord  Yarrow's  nurse  was  sent  for,  and  consented 
to  Mr.  Dudley's  having  a  few  minutes  conversation  with 
her  patient. 

Yarrow  lay  very  still  among  his  pillows,  a  dreamy 
smile  on  his  lips.  He  was  happy,  but  very  tired.  After 
a  time,  the  smile  broadening,  he  asked :  ' '  But  where  is 
your  hat,  Uncle  Charles?  " 

The  Rector  turned,  looked  on  the  table,  on  the  floor, 
in  his  chair.  No  hat  was  there. 

He  rang  and  Jarvis,  after  a  search  in  the  hall,  pro 
nounced  that  there,  also,  no  hat  was  to  be  found.  The 
Rector  rose,  crestfallen. 

"  I  must  have  left  it  somewhere." 

"  But  where  did  you  go  before  you  came  here?  " 
Yarrow's  hollow  eyes  twinkled. 

"  Nowhere,  George,"  faltered  the  old  man.  "  I 
came  straight  here;  /  must  have  dropped  it  on  the 
road!  " 

Yarrow  held  out  his  hand.  "  Rebecca  will  go  for 
you. ' ' 

Mr.  Dudley  groaned.  "  I  know  she  will.  Well — 
good-by,  my  dear  boy.  I'll  come  back  when  I've  found 
it,  and  see  the  Prince.  May  I?  " 

' '  Of  course  you  may.  I  warn  you,  though,  he 's  very 
plain,  as  the  little  girl  said  of  the  chimpanzee.  Are  all 
small  babies  so  frightful?  " 

206 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

"  Mine  was.  And  he  had  an  awful  way  of  choking 
over  his  fists. ' ' 

Shaking  hands  hastily  with  his  nephew,  he  took  his 
leave,  and  retraced  his  steps  homeward,  searching  for 
the  missing  hat. 

Luckily  he  found  it  at  the  edge  of  the  dusty  grass, 
where  he  had  stood  talking  to  the  doctor.  Two  minutes 
later  he  met  his  wife,  who,  her  skirt  hitched  well  up  out 
of  the  dust,  a  large,  sensible,  ugly  hat  shading  her  face, 
was  on  her  way  to  the  village.  "  Dear  me,  Charles,"  she 
said,  fixing  him  with  her  eye,  "  what  have  you  been  up 
to?  " 

"  Up  to,  my  dear?  Up  to  Borrowdaile  House,"  he 
returned  with  a  little,  nervous  laugh. 

"  You  look — strange.  Did  you  lose  something?  " 
Then  the  Rector  took  courage.  "  I  will  not  be  scolded 
to-day,"  he  said,  "  on  Borrowdaile's  birthday.  Another 
word,  my  love,  and  I  '11  kiss  you  on  the  highway !  ' ' 


207 


CHAPTER   XXVI 

"  HE  and  Hecuba  "  was  locked  away  in  a  drawer  in 
Hardy's  writing  table. 

After  his  talk  with  Madame  Perez  in  the  yew-arbor 
he  had  put  it  there,  and  for  weeks  had  had  the  courage 
and  the  weakness  to  keep  it  there,  in  spite  of  the  gnaw 
ing  curiosity  that  tormented  him.  He  was  afraid 
to  read  it;  afraid  of  ruining  the  comparative  mental 
calm  that  had  been  his  since  he  had  sent  away  the  MS. ; 
afraid  of  losing  his  great  pleasure  in  spending  the  money 
it  was  bringing  him. 

About  a  fortnight  after  his  interview  with  her,  Ma 
dame  Perez  sent  him  a  great  package  of  criticisms  of  his 
book  that  she  had  had  collected  by  a  clipping  agent.  It 
came  by  the  morning  post,  and  Katie  brought  it  to  him 
as  he  sat  with  his  family  at  breakfast. 

Feeling  his  wife's  eyes  on  him,  he  flushed  uneasily; 
her  vague  suspicions  were  directed  in  an  almost  ludi 
crously  wrong  direction,  but  they  hurt  her,  he  knew,  and 
he  could  not  explain  them  away. 

The  very  fact  of  her  not  asking  what  the  package 
contained  annoyed  him,  so  that  when  Algy,  attracted  by 
the  heap  of  greenish  blue  papers  on  each  of  which  a 
newspaper  item  was  fastened,  inquired  about  them,  he 

208 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

answered  very  gently:  "  Nothing  of  interest  to  you, 
Algy;  notices  of  a  new  book,  that  is  all." 

"  All  that  about  a  book?  " 

"  Yes.  It  is  a  book  that  Madame  Perez  is  interested 
in,  and  wants  me  to  read." 

"  Dear  me,  King,  what  is  it?  Why  doesn't  she  lend 
it  to  us?  "  his  wife  asked,  relief  in  her  voice  and  face. 
' '  What  is  the  name  of  it  ?  " 

"  Why  doesn't  she  lend  it  to  us?  Katie,  you  may 
burn  those  papers.  I've  no  time,  Abby,  to  waste  on 
book  notices.  Will  you  give  me  another  cup  of  coffee?  " 

MacDougall,  whose  manners  had  made  great  progress 
of  late,  caused  a  lucky  diversion  just  here  by  suddenly 
reverting  to  his  old  way  of  eating  porridge — with  the 
handle  of  his  spoon,  and  the  subject  of  the  package  was 
not  again  brought  up. 

After  breakfast,  Hardy,  touched  by  something  in  his 
wife's  eyes,  as  she  started  upstairs,  a  child  in  each  hand, 
said  to  her:  "  By  the  way,  Abby,  I  forgot  to  give  Ma 
dame  Perez  your  message  about  coming  to  tea  that  day. 
Why  don 't  you  write  her  a  note  and  ask  her  to  come  to 
morrow  ?  I  '11  be  at  Sabley  on  the  commission  and  out  of 
the  way." 

"  Oh,  King!    Wouldn't  you  rather  be  here?  " 

He  laughed.  "  No,  dear,  a  man  is  only  in  the  way 
on  such  occasions." 

"  But — I  thought  you  liked  her  so  much,"  she  fal 
tered. 

"  I  wonder  why  you  thought  that?  I  admire  her — 
she  is  undoubtedly  very  handsome  in  her  way,  and  she 

209 


is  rather  amusing,  I  suppose;  but  I  can't  say  I  exactly 
like  her.  What  little  I  have  seen  of  her  character  I  have 
not  particularly  admired." 

Abby  Hardy's  light  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  she 
sat  down  on  the  step,  taking  the  smaller  of  the  children 
in  her  arms. 

"  King — I  have  been  so  awfully  silly — will  you  for 
give  me?  You  remember  that  note  that  you  wouldn't 
let  me  see  ?  Well — I  was  jealous  about  it.  I  thought  you 
admired  her,  and  that  she  admired  you. ' ' 

He  laughed  again,  with  relief  this  time,  at  having 
quieted  her  without  lying. 

"  Oh,  you  goose.  Do  beautiful  women  as  a  rule  ad-> 
mire  me?  Or  I  them?  I  haven't  laid  eyes  on  Madame 
Perez  since  that  day. ' ' 

"  Oh,  I  am  ashamed.  It  wasn't  that  I  doubted  you, 
you  know,  only — now  that  I  can  have  nice  clothes,  King, 
I  realize  so  much  more  than  before  how  old  and  plain  I 
have  grown." 

He  laid  his  hand  on  her  thin  hair  with  genuine  ten 
derness.  "  My  dear  girl,  we  are  growing  old  together, 
you  and  I,  and,  believe  me,  I  mind  it  no  more  in  you 
than  I  do  in  myself.  You  have  been  the  best  and  most 
uncomplaining  wife  in  the  world,  bearing  your  share 
and  my — hastiness — like  an  angel.  If  you  had  the 
smallpox  to-morrow  and  became  perfectly  hideous,  it 
would  make  no  difference  to  me.  Nothing  could  change 
my  affection  for  you. ' ' 

When  he  was  alone  in  his  study,  the  door  closed,  he 
went  to  the  window  and  stood  looking  out  into  the 
garden.  210 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

The  plans  recommended  by  the  gardening  book  had 
proved  practicable  only  as  to  the  cutting  of  the  turf  into 
numerous  new  beds ;  the  seeds  had  not  sufficed,  and  two 
oblong  beds  which  Hardy,  seeing  his  wife's  shame  and 
disappointment,  had  wished  to  complete  by  a  new  order 
to  the  seed-man,  were  still  bare  of  all  growth. 

"  The  fault  was  mine,  King.  I  don't  want  you 
to  spend  another  penny.  Please,"  she  said,  and  he 
yielded. 

The  long  plots  of  bare  earth,  one  on  each  side  of  the 
garden  path,  looked  like  neglected  graves,  it  occurred  to 
Hardy,  as  his  eyes  fell  on  them.  The  flowers  in  the 
other  beds,  planted  too  late,  were  struggling  feebly  into 
blossom ;  only  the  honeysuckle  on  the  wall  and  the  row 
of  hollyhocks  to  his  right  were  really  worth  considera 
tion  as  garden  ornaments. 

"  Poor  Abby,"  he  sighed.  The  memory  of  his  first 
sight  of  her  rose  before  him.  She  had  stood  in  the  small 
north  country  Rectory  garden,  surrounded  by  asters  of 
all  colors,  the  sun  beating  down  on  her  pretty  head.  She 
had  been  very  pretty  in  a  simple  way. 

Well — so  had  he  been  a  handsome  enough  young  fel 
low  in  those  days.  Time  spares  no  one;  even  Madame 
Perez's  rather  flamboyant  beauty  would  fade  sooner  or 
later ;  she  would  grow  yellow  and  thin — or  more  proba 
bly  fat  and  shapeless,  as  so  many  southern  women  do. 

Abby,  eager  to  show  her  contrition,  had  sent  Algy 
down  to  Liscom  House  with  a  note,  and  Madame  Perez 
had  accepted  the  invitation  to  tea  very  graciously. 

She  had  been  delightful,  Abby  told  him  afterwards, 
211 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

and  wore  the  most  beautiful  silver  gray  batiste  gown 
encrusted  all  over  with  lace. 

He  himself,  back  from  Sabley  earlier  than  he  had  ex 
pected  to  be,  had  gone  to  the  Dudleys'  instead  of  com 
ing  home  for  tea.  He  had  not  wished  to  see  Madame 
Perez.  Indeed,  he  wished  that  she  would  leave  the  place. 
Her  knowledge  of  his  two-fold  secret  chafed  him,  and 
the  consciousness  that  she  greatly  enjoyed  her  hold  on 
him,  and  the  suspicion  that  she  would  not,  at  a  pinch, 
hesitate  to  use  it,  made  him  angrily  uneasy.  But  she  did 
not  go;  nearly  a  month  had  passed  since  he  had  seen 
her,  and  she  was  still  here. 

The  day  after  the  birth  of  little  Lord  Borrowdaile, 
Hardy,  who  had  been  to  see  Yarrow  and  inquire  for 
Lady  Yarrow,  came  face  to  face  with  the  woman  whom 
he  felt  to  be  his  potential  tormentor,  as  he  made  his  way 
down  the  shady  avenue. 

Bowing  stiffly,  he  would  have  passed  her,  but  she 
stopped  him.  ' '  Mr.  Hardy, ' '  she  said,  gently,  ' '  are  you 
angry  with  me?  " 

He  was  too  simple-minded  to  see  that  the  change  of 
tone  was  merely  a  weapon  that  she  was  using  against 
him.  "  Angry!  "  he  paused,  and  then  answered  delib 
erately,  ' '  Yes,  I  have  been  angry  with  you. ' ' 

"  Because  of — the  book.  Well — will  you  forgive 
me?  "  Her  face  was  very  serious,  quiet  with  that  cu 
rious  immobility  that  was  one  of  its  characteristics. 

"  Forgive  you?  Surely  there  is  no  question  of  for 
giveness  between  you  and  me,  Madame  Perez. ' ' 

She  had  been  chafing  for  weeks  over  her  inability  to 
212 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

manage  him ;  his  persistence  in  avoiding  her,  her  knowl 
edge  of  his  half  disdain  of  her,  adding  a  zest  to  her  de 
termination  to  get  the  better  of  him. 

Moreover,  the  book  had  a  strange  fascination  for  her ; 
she  had  reread  it  a  half  dozen  times,  seeking,  and  find 
ing  in  the  man  whose  story  it  told,  a  charm  and  interest 
that  roused  all  the  worst  of  the  womanhood  in  her.  This 
man,  this  Hubert  Branscombe,  was  a  man  whom  she 
could  understand,  who  could  understand  her;  he  was  a 
man  who  could  love,  and  who  could  love  her;  he  \vas  a 
man  whose  love  would  interest  and  amuse  her,  and — 
there  he  was  a  trifle  older,  but  in  all  essentials  the  same 
man,  and  instead  of  amusing  her  by  loving  her,  he  dis 
liked  and  avoided  her !  It  was  not  to  be  borne. 

As  she  stood  with  him  in  the  quick-fading  and  re 
turning  sunlight,  mottled  by  the  restless  movement  of 
the  leaves,  it  came  to  her  with  a  force  that  took  her  by 
surprise,  that  he  must  love  her. 

He  must  say,  in  that  deep,  soft  voice,  often  broken 
with  harsh  notes  that  had  been  the  first  thing  in  him  to 
attract  her,  the  words  he  had  said  to  that  other  woman 
in  the  book.  No — not  the  same,  but  other,  stronger 
words,  for  he  had  lived  and  suffered  since  then,  and  all 
his  powers  had  strengthened.  He  was  a  deeper-natured 
and  stronger  Branscombe. 

"  Surely  this  is  no  question  of  forgiveness  between 
you  and  me?  "  The  words  rang  in  her  ears  while  she 
laid  her  plans,  and,  with  a  sigh,  set  them  going. 

"  Is  there  not?  I  think  there  is.  You  disliked  my 
knowing  that  you  wrote  the  book,  and  I — teased  you 

213 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

about  it.  I  had  no  right  to,  and  I  beg  your  pardon. 
Moreover — I  promise  never  to  tell  what  I  learned  by 
chance. ' ' 

An  involuntary  sigh  of  relief  was  his  first  answer, 
and  then,  grateful,  he  thanked  her. 

"  It  was  a  curious  chance  that  betrayed  your  secret 
to  me,  mine  to  you,"  he  went  on,  after  a  pause,  "  and 
on  the  whole  you  have  been  kinder  to  me  than  I  to  you. ' ' 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  gently.  "  Ah — but  you 
consider  mine  unpardonable — and,  if  I  were  God,  I 
should  have  forgiven  yours  at  once." 

He  started.  "  If  you  were —  No.  Believe  me,  I 
condone  my  sin  no  more  than  I  do  yours. ' ' 

His  expression  had  hardened  again. 

"  I  know.  You  are — remorseless.  Some  day  I  will 
tell  you  why." 

' '  Why  ?    Why  I  am,  as  you  say,  remorseless  1  ' ' 

"  Yes.  I  know,  and  you  do  not.  Mr.  Hardy,  will 
you  not  be  friends  with  me?  I  am  very  lonely,  and  I 
like  you." 

She  spoke  very  simply,  something  almost  childlike  in 
her  voice,  and  in  the  curiously  limpid  brown  eyes  that 
looked  almost  levelly  into  his. 

He  hesitated.  "  Friends,  Madame  Perez?  You  are 
very  kind,  and  I  thank  you,  but — I  am  very  busy,  and 
besides,  I  have,  I  fear,  no  talent  for  friendship.  Yar 
row  is  my  friend,  and  Mr.  Dudley — I  never  had  a  wom 
an-friend  in  my  life." 

'  That  is  not  surprising  to  me.  You  have  not  needed 
one.  You  and  your  wife  understand  each  other  so  well 

214 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

that  you  have  never  needed  any  other  woman.  But  I 
confess  my  motive  in  asking  you  was  selfish.  You  do  not 
need  a  woman-friend,  but  I — I  need  a  man-friend. ' ' 

It  was  all  very  banal  and  absurd.  She  lowered  her 
eyes  to  hide  an  irrepressible  glint  she  felt  there,  but 
when  she  raised  them,  limpid  as  at  first,  she  saw  that 
she  had  succeeded.  Banality  was  the  only  way  with 
him.  He  did  not  like  her,  was  not  even  attracted  by  her, 
but  an  appeal  to  his  help  was  a  different  matter. 

' '  If  ever  I  can  help  you  in  any  way, ' '  he  said,  still  a 
little  stiffly,  "  I  shall  be  very  glad." 

Holding  out  her  hand  she  thanked  him  gently,  and 
went  her  way  to  the  house. 

How  cold  he  was,  how  curiously  simple,  in  spite  of 
the  obvious  subtleties  of  his  nature!  If  she  had  been 
Mrs.  Burrage,  the  old  one-eyed  enemy  of  the  Apostles, 
he  could  not  have  met  her  advance  with  less  enthusiasm. 

He  was  a  puzzle  that  she  must  unravel,  for  under,  be 
hind  his  sincere  coldness,  lay — all  those  other  qualities 
that  she  hoped  to  get  at.  The  very  difficulties  inspired 
her  with  an  enthusiasm  that  was  delightful.  There  was 
a  possibility  that  she  must  consider,  however,  and  as  it 
occurred  to  her  she  stood  still  for  a  moment,  biting  her 
lip,  and  narrowing  her  eyes.  He  might  have  loved  that 
other  woman  with  all  the  love  that  was  in  him ;  he  might 
be — she  smiled  as  she  found  the  word  and  dismissed  the 
possibility  simultaneously — a  burnt-out  crater ! 


215 


CHAPTER   XXVII 

THROUGH  the  long  gray  days  Lord  Yarrow  lay  listen 
ing  to  the  steady  beat  of  rain  on  the  windows,  his  room 
darkened  by  occasional  swoops  downward  of  the  wind- 
tossed  trees. 

The  fine  weather  that  had  held  so  long,  was  gone, 
and  in  the  resolute  wet  the  trees  took  on  something  of 
an  autumnal  air,  though  September  had  not  yet  come. 
The  flowers  that  the  sick  man  brought  in  every 
morning,  and  the  best  of  which  he  made  into  nosegays 
for  his  wife,  grew  faded,  the  veins  in  their  soaked  petals 
more  noticeable,  as  are  the  veins  in  a  hand  rendered 
transparent  by  illness.  One  angel  had  come,  and  now 
the  man  in  the  bed  was  quietly  awaiting  the  other. 

Sometimes  they  brought  the  baby  and  laid  it  beside 
him;  he  never  tired  of  looking  at  its  little  red  face,  and 
the  feeble  grip  of  its  fingers  brought  to  him  one  of  the 
keenest  pleasures  he  had  ever  known.  It  was  a  fine, 
strong  boy,  Tench  had  told  him,  but  it  was  a  superfluous 
bit  of  information. 

He  knew  that  the  child  would  live ;  he  could  see  him 
at  successive  stages  of  his  life — first  learning  to  walk, 
holding  to  his  mother 's  black  skirts — then  seated  for  the 
first  time  on  a  horse — then  the  face  grew  longer,  and 

216 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

smiled  at  him  over  the  shiny  whiteness  of  an  Eton  col 
lar — and  so  on.  The  Yarrows  all  went  to  Eton  and  then 
to  Christ  Church.  This  one  would  do  the  same,  he  could 
trust  his  wife  not  to  interrupt  the  old  order  of  things. 
Later,  possibly,  politics,  and,  surely,  a  wife,  and — an 
other  little  baby. 

This  was  the  inevitable  end  of  the  dying  man's 
dreams,  and  sometimes,  as  the  little  creature  beside  him 
stirred,  he  looked  at  it  not  quite  sure  whether  he  were  its 
father  or  its  grandfather. 

Woodvil,  who  was  stopping  at  the  Rectory,  came 
every  day,  and  the  two  men  would  talk  together  of 
the  future  of  the  child,  who  was  the  godson  of  the 
younger. 

Yarrow  never  again  referred  to  the  subject  which 
had  so  distressed  his  friend.  He  had  expressed  his  opin 
ion  and  his  wish,  and  that  was  enough. 

Woodvil,  on  the  other  hand,  had  put  the  matter  out 
of  his  mind,  as  one  which  only  the  weakness  of  illness 
had  led  his  friend  to  mention.  He  was  not  a  religious 
man,  and  his  life  would  have  borne  no  such  close  in 
spection  as  Yarrow's,  but  he  had  been  born  a  Catholic, 
and  the  idea  of  protesting  against  the  laws  of  his  church 
had  never  occurred  to  him,  even  years  before,  when  leav 
ing  Mary  Carmichael  had  been  like  cutting  at  his  heart. 
Since  then  he  had  traveled,  worked,  and  being  blessed 
with  a  healthy  nature,  both  moral  and  physical,  had  not 
been  actively  unhappy. 

On  coming  back,  the  autumn  before,  and  hearing  her 
sing,  it  had  come  to  him  with  a  pang  that  he  had  not  f  or- 

217 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

gotten  her  as  completely  as  he  had  hoped,  so  he  had  gone 
away  again,  and  only  Yarrow's  inevitably  near  death 
had  kept  him  in  England. 

Of  the  three  men,  Yarrow,  Hardy,  and  himself,  he 
was  the  least  intellectual  and  the  simplest,  and  now 
awaited  the  end,  which  would  bring  him,  with  much  sor 
row,  much  relief,  with  a  certain  unconscious  philosophy 
that  smoothed  for  him  a  way  that  would  have  been  un 
bearable  to  many  men.  As  soon  as  it  was  over  he  would 
go  away  without  seeing  Lady  Yarrow,  and  there  was  a 
certain  scheme  for  bridging  a  great  river  in  India  that 
would  prove  sufficiently  interesting  to  distract  him  from 
unprofitable  musing. 

Mrs.  Dudley  watched  the  man  she  found  so  singular 
with  great  interest.  She  was  a  good  woman,  and  very 
curious,  and  as  the  days  passed,  and  the  time  when  Lady 
Yarrow  might  be  expected  to  become  visible  again  drew 
near  without  making  her  a  widow,  Mrs.  Dudley's  emo 
tion  increased.  Would  Mary  see  him?  Or  wouldn't 
she?  Would  he  stay  for  the  funeral,  or  would  he,  as 
would  undoubtedly  be  more  delicate,  leave  the  minute 
his  friend 's  eyes  closed  ? 

The  Rector,  naturally  the  only  person  to  whom  she 
could  express  her  anxiety,  laughed  at  her. 

"  Scuttle  away  without  stopping  to  pack  his  things. 
Oh,  yes,  nothing  more  likely,  my  dear!  " 

However,  Rebecca  Dudley  was  not  used,  she  told  her 
self,  to  being  understood  by  her  husband.  "  Under 
stood  "  means  "  agreed  with  "  to  so  many  women. 

Personally,  Woodvil  was  very  agreeable  to  her;  he 
218 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

was  not  at  all  a  troublesome  guest,  and,  admirable  qual 
ities,  he  neither  smoked  nor  came  late  to  his  meals. 

Mr.  Dudley,  who  was  losing  a  good  part  of  his  life 
with  his  nephew,  spent  hours  at  the  bedside,  often  silent, 
sometimes,  lulled  by  the  sick  man's  regular  breathing 
and  the  hush  of  the  rain,  sleeping  in  his  chair.  Yarrow 
grew  daily  weaker,  but  his  mind  was  at  times  curiously 
clear.  Once,  waking  from  a  half-sleep,  he  asked, 
abruptly : 

"  Uncle  Charles,  why  did  you  ever  marry  her?  " 

The  old  man  started. 

' '  My  dear  boy ! —  What  does  it  matter  now  ?  She  is 
a  very  good  woman." 

"  I  know,"  Yarrow  went  on  with  a  little  laugh, 
' '  but — why  ?  She  never  was  pretty,  was  she  ?  ' : 

"  I  ought  to  rebuke  your  frivolity,  but — well,  I  can't. 
No,  she  wasn't  pretty.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  it  was  a — 
a  mistake." 

"  So  I  have  always  thought.    But — how?  " 

The  Rector  crossed  his  legs  and,  laying  the  tips  of  his 
thin  fingers  together,  gave  himself  up  to  the  joy  of  nar 
ration.  He  had  never  in  his  loyal  life  told  a  soul,  but — 
Yarrow  was  dying,  and  it  would  be  a  certain  relief  to 
explain. 

"  You  see,  I  visited  her  father,  Sir  William  Glynn, 
when  I  was  a  curate.  It  was  a  delightful  house;  Sir 
William  the  most  genial,  pleasant  of  men.  Lucy  was 
like  him."  He  paused  reflectively. 

' '  And  Rebecca  took  after  her  mother, ' '  finished  Yar 
row.    "  I — I  never  heard  of  Lucy,  Uncle  Charles." 
15  219 


HE   AND  HECUBA 

The  Rector  chuckled.  "  Yes.  Distinctly  after  her 
mother.  And — oh,  yes,  there  was  Lucy.  Lucy  was 
younger.  That  is,  in  effect,  the  whole  story.  I  was  very 
young  and  rather  awkward.  I  meant  Lucy  and — and — 
they  thought  I  meant  Rebecca. ' ' 

After  all  these  years,  a  feeling  of  indignation  rose  up 
in  Yarrow  at  his  gentle  words.  They  thought  he  meant 
Rebecca !  It  was  unnecessary  for  him  to  ask  who  thought 
so.  ' '  They  ' '  was  of  course  Rebecca  herself ! 

He  laid  his  chill  hand  on  his  uncle 's  knee.  ' '  Dearest 
old  man,"  he  said. 

The  rain  kept  on,  and  at  last  the  first  of  September 
came.  Lady  Yarrow,  wheeled  into  the  room  on  a  couch, 
lay  there  all  the  day,  the  baby,  when  quiet,  beside  her. 
After  her  first  visit,  when  he  was,  of  course,  not  ad 
mitted,  "VVoodvil  came  in  the  evenings,  when  she  was  not 
there. 

Once  or  twice  Hardy  had  come,  and  her  couch  was 
rolled  into  the  next  room. 

Yarrow  seemed  to  like  seeing  people;  even  some  of 
the  old  tenants  and  outdoor  servants  were  brought  to 
him.  He  was  very  tired,  and  glad  to  go,  but  he  liked 
saying  good-by. 

At  last,  one  day  in  September,  the  end  came.  It  was 
evening,  the  rain  pelting  down  with  a  sudden  access  of 
vigor,  the  wind  blowing  up  strong  from  the  sea.  The 
Rector  and  Woodvil  were  sitting  with  Yarrow,  when, 
without  speaking,  he  fainted. 

Mary,  sent  for  hurriedly,  came  in  leaning  on  the 
nurse 's  arm,  and  without  noticing  the  two  men  who  lin- 

220 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

gered,  sat  down  and  took  her  husband's  head  in  her 
arms.  He  came  to  in  a  few  minutes  to  find  himself  thus 
held.  "  Ah.  It  has  come,  Mary,"  he  said,  slowly. 
' '  Good-by,  Jacques,  dear  old  boy.  Don 't  forget.  Good- 
by,  Uncle  Charles,  you  must  stay — downstairs." 

They  wrung  his  hand  and  left  the  room  hastily  and 
hushed. 

In  the  corridor  they  met  the  nurse,  bringing  the  boy 
downstairs  to  "  say  good-night  to  his  papa." 

Without  a  word,  the  old  man  took  the  little  creature 
and  carried  it  back  into  the  bedroom,  the  nurse  follow 
ing  in  surprise. 

Woodvil  found  his  hat  and  coat,  and  went  out  into 
the  wet,  alone.  After  all,  it  is  hard  to  be  alone.  He 
walked  slowly  down  the  road,  through  Borrowdaile  vil 
lage  to  the  Rectory,  to  find  Mrs.  Dudley  awaiting  him. 

"  Where  is  the  Rector?  "  she  asked,  slowly,  as  he  ap 
peared  alone.  "  It  is  nearly  eight  o'clock." 

"  Yes — I  am  sorry — the  Rector  is  staying  on,  Mrs. 
Dudley.  Yarrow  is  dying." 

Mrs.  Dudley  gave  a  little  inelastic  spring  of  excite 
ment.  "Dear  me!  Poor  fellow.  Well — I  shall  be  sorry 
to  lose  you,  Mr.  Woodvil,  but — Henry  can  put  up  your 
things  whenever  you  wish  him  to." 

Woodvil,  who  somehow  was  feeling  particularly  lone 
ly,  as  well  as  sad,  smiled  at  her,  his  white  teeth  glinting 
in  the  lamplight. 

"  Are  you  putting  me  out?  "  he  asked.  "  Won't 
you  keep  me  till  after  the  funeral?  " 

"  Then — you  think  you  had  better  stay?  " 
221 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

He  sank  down  in  a  low  chair  near  the  fire  and  leaned 
his  curly  head  on  his  hand.  "  Why  shouldn't  I  stay? 
He  is — or  was — my  best  friend,  Mrs.  Dudley." 

Something  in  the  utter  dejection  and  forlornness  of 
his  attitude  and  voice  touched  her. 

After  a  pause,  she  said,  gently  for  her:  "  I  know;  it 
is  a  great  loss  to  you;  but — we  are  his  uncle  and  aunt, 
you  know,  and  Lady  Sally  is  an  old  and  close  friend  of 
mine " 

He  looked  up,  with  eyes  that  twinkled  a  little  behind 
the  tears  that  stood  in  them.  "  Ah.  You  mean — that 
old  story?  " 

"  Yes." 

And  then  Jacques  Woodvil  did  what  probably  aston 
ished  Rebecca  Dudley  as  much  as  it  would  have  some 
third  person,  for  she  realized  fully  that  she  was  not  one 
of  those  women  to  whom  confidences  naturally  come. 
He  told  her,  in  a  few  words,  his  version  of  the  week  long 
ago  when  he  had  met  Mary  Carmichael  at  the  house  of 
old  Lord  Yarrow.  "  I  couldn't  marry,  you  see  " — he 
finished, ' '  so  that  was  the  end  of  it.  And  it  is  five  years 
ago." 

"  It  was — very  sad " 

Woodvil  rose.  "  Yes,  it  was  sad,  but  there  was  no 
help  for  it,  and — do  you  think  it  justifies  your  turning 
me  out  now?  " 

It  must,  in  justice  to  her,  be  said  that  Mrs.  Dudley, 
touched  and  somehow  convinced,  did  not  hesitate  to  fol 
low  the  new  lead  of  her  opinion. 

"  No,  I  do  not,"  she  answered,  promptly.  "  And — 
222 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

stay  here  with  us  until  the  funeral  is  over.    Now  let 's  go 
to  dinner." 

Woodvil  couldn't  eat,  and,  still  prompted  by  the  cu 
rious  new  softness  that  he  had  managed  to  find  in  her 
hard-shelled  nature,  she  sent  him  to  his  room,  whither 
a  few  minutes  later  he  was  followed  by  a  servant  with 
whisky  and  soda  on  a  tray.  The  workings  of  one  per 
sonality  on  another  is  a  curious  study,  and  it  is  safe  to 
say  that  had  Woodvil  been  even  the  most  charming  and 
touching  of  women,  her  treatment  of  him,  middle-aged, 
hard-featured,  and  sharp-tongued  as  she  was,  would 
have  been  different. 


223 


CHAPTER    XXVIII 

ABBY  HARDY  was  not  a  clever  woman,  and  she  cer 
tainly  was  not  a  suspicious  one.  Her  husband's  avowal 
to  her  of  the  nature  of  his  sentiments  for  Madame  Perez 
had  effectually  quieted  what  she  in  her  sudden,  piteous 
consciousness  of  her  own  unattractive  middle  age  had 
felt  on  first  seeing  him  in  a  measure,  as  it  seemed  to  her, 
intimate  with  the  beautiful  mistress  of  Liscom  Place. 

That  Hardy  could  ever  be  in  the  slightest  degree  un 
faithful  to  her  and  to  his  duty  had  not  occurred  to  her ; 
she  had  little  imagination  and  she  had  the  habit  of  years 
to  fall  back  on.  But  that  evening  at  the  dinner,  while 
the  talk  about  the  book  was  going  on,  she  had  caught  the 
gaze  of  Madame  Perez  fixed  on  Hardy  with  a  curious 
intensity  that  had  first  interested,  then  startled  his  wife. 

Madame  Perez  was  much  younger  than  she,  and  until 
that  moment  it  had  never  occurred  to  Abby  that  in 
growing  old,  she  was  leaving  her  husband  still  hovering 
on  the  boundary  of  youth. 

Now,  her  eyes,  following  those  of  Madame  Perez, 
seemed  to  see  clearly  that  whereas  she  herself  was  a 
faded  middle-aged  woman,  on  whom  no  man  would  ever 
again  look  with  more  than  a  pitiful  kindness,  her  hus 
band  was  still,  comparatively  speaking,  a  young  man, 

224 


HE    AND    HECUBA 

and  undoubtedly  a  striking-looking,  if  not  a  handsome 
one. 

Something  like  a  flash  of  intuition,  too,  showed  her 
that  his  stern  face  could  have  an  attraction  for  the  glow 
ing,  beautiful  Southern  woman  who  was  watching  him 
so  closely. 

And  the  worst  of  it  was  that,  to  her,  Madame  Perez 
seemed  absolutely  irresistible. 

In  the  long  years  she  had  been  Hardy's  wife,  she 
had,  all  unconsciously,  while  admiring  him  with  her 
whole  heart,  learned  to  feel,  rather  than  see,  some  of 
his  weaknesses,  and  she  realized  that  while  his  strong 
will  and  his  iron  sense  of  duty  would  prevent  his  wrong 
ing  her  by  the  slightest  act,  his  emotionality,  which 
worked  in  a  sort  of  strange  independence,  apart  from 
his  will,  could  submit  to  the  right  kind  of  pressure,  and 
make  him  wretched. 

And,  the  charm  of  Madame  Perez's  personality  being 
to  herself  the  strongest  Abby  Hardy  had  ever  encoun 
tered,  the  poor  woman  gave  a  little  physical  shiver  as 
she  caught  the  sudden  gleam  in  the  South  American's 
eyes  as  they  rose  from  the  table. 

The  impression  faded  during  the  evening,  and  was 
almost  entirely  lost  in  the  following  days. 

Then  came  the  incident  of  the  note,  and  for  an  hour 
her  misery  had  been  heart-breakingly  acute,  for  it 
seemed  to  her  that  the  worst  had  come  to  pass;  that 
Madame  Perez  had  begun  to  use  her  siren  wiles,  and 
that  Hardy  would  inevitably  fall  at  her  feet. 

Madame  Perez,  to  do  her  justice,  would,  had  it 
225 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

occurred  to  her,  have  spared  the  other  woman  at  this 
stage.  The  great  idea  of  seeking,  in  the  elderly  Hardy 
of  to-day,  the  passionate  nature  of  the  man  in  the  book, 
not  yet  having  occurred  to  her,  and  there  being  not  the 
slightest  question  of  any  feeling  between  herself  and 
Hardy  beyond  her  almost  boyish  love  of  teasing,  she 
would  have  shrunk  from  giving  a  pang  to  the  poor 
woman  of  whom  her  only  feeling  was  one  of  careless 
pity. 

That  the  note,  with  its  mention  of  the  book,  would 
embarrass  Hardy,  she  knew,  and  took  a  malicious  pleas 
ure  in  the  thought,  but  Abby  Hardy  was  of  too  little 
significance  to  her  to  be  even  remembered. 

Mrs.  Hardy,  when  she  had  gone  to  her  room  that 
day,  looked  in  her  glass,  and  with  a  burst  of  helpless 
tears  told  herself  that  the  end  was  a  foregone  conclusion. 
What  must  come,  must  come,  for  she  herself  was  weapon 
less. 

Then  Hardy  had  brought  her  a  cup  of  tea,  and  in  his 
gentle  way,  stroking  her  hot  brow  and  hands,  and  uncon 
sciously  adopting  a  voice  suited  to  a  child  who  suffers 
because  he  cannot  understand,  had  gradually  quieted 
her. 

She  felt  the  sincerity  in  his  voice,  in  his  eyes,  and  let 
herself  be  consoled. 

Ashamed  of  herself,  moreover,  for  her  suspicions, 
she  had,  as  far  as  possible,  mentally  dropped  the  subject, 
until  the  day  when  the  bundle  of  newspaper  cuttings 
had  again  forced  it  on  her. 

The  poor  woman's  misery  over  this  insignificant 
226 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

event  was  such  that  she  felt,  as  she  started  up  the  stairs 
with  the  children,  that  death  was  her  only  refuge.  She 
would  pray  to  die. 

In  the  buoyant  relief  of  Hardy 's  frank  words,  in  every 
one  of  which  the  truth  rang,  her  shame  and  remorse 
were  painfully  keen,  and  her  subsequent  happiness  the 
greater.  From  that  day  to  one  shortly  after  Lord  Yar 
row's  funeral,  which  had  taken  place  in  the  next  county, 
at  Yarrow,  Mrs.  Hardy  had  been  very  content  and  busy. 
Algy  was  to  go  to  school  in  a  few  weeks,  and  as  there 
were  many  children  to  be  provided  with  winter  clothes, 
Miss  Ibbetts,  the  Borrowdaile  dressmaker,  a  cousin  of 
Katie's  friend,  the  butcher,  but,  by  reason  of  her  occu 
pation,  a  person  almost  painfully  genteel,  was  already 
installed  upstairs,  hard  at  work. 

The  chairs  and  tables  of  the  little  room  were  half- 
buried  in  rolls  and  packages  of  stuff  of  different  colors ; 
an  ironing-board  stretched  across  the  back  of  two  kitchen 
chairs;  the  portable  sewing  machine  in  one  window; 
the  cutting  board  leaning  against  the  wall ;  these  things 
so  delightfully  significant  of  prosperity,  hardly  left 
space  for  the  two  women,  who,  hard  at  work,  talked  to 
gether  spasmodically. 

Miss  Ibbetts,  a  thin  woman  of  forty,  with  a  rigidity 
of  carriage  that  poor  Abby  secretly  admired,  and  a  very 
elaborate  coiffure  which  changed  conscientiously  accord 
ing  to  the  exigencies  of  fashion,  as  announced  in  the 
"Queen,"  took  the  last  pin  from  her  mouth,  after  a 
longer  pause  than  usual,  and  began,  without  moving  her 
upper  lip:  "  Yes,  I  observed  to  her,  as  she  was  so  ob- 

227 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

stinate:  '  Well,  Mrs.  Penniwell,  if  the  mountain  won't 
come  to  Hamilton,  Hamilton  will  have  to  come  to  the 
mountain.'  And  I  went." 

Mrs.  Hardy  bit  her  lip. 

"  She  is  certainly  a  very  determined  woman.  Will 
that  hem  be  deep  enough?  " 

"Yes.  I  noticed  the  other  day  that  passamentary 
is  coming  in  again.  I  sat  behind  that  lady  who  has  taken 
Liscom  Place — Madame  Perez — in  church.  Her  cloak 
was  one  mass  of  it,  and  that  cloak  came  from  Paris,  I'll 
be  bound.  That  is,"  she  added,  primly,  "  I  fancy  so." 

' '  Most  of  her  clothes  do,  no  doubt.  She  is  very  rich, 
I  believe.  She  gives  Mr.  Hardy  a  good  deal  of  money 
for  the  poor." 

"  Does  she?  I  saw  her  yesterday  going  into  Bur- 
rage's  with  some  packages." 

"  Burrage's?  Dear  me,  I  shouldn't  have  thought 
she'd  care  for  visiting,"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Hardy,  thread 
ing  her  needle. 

"  Perhaps  she  only  went  in  with  Mr.  Hardy.  He 
was  with  her,  and  I  didn  't  observe  her  carriage. ' ' 

There  was  a  short  silence,  while  matters  readjusted 
themselves  in  Mrs.  Hardy 's  mind.  King  had  not  lied  to 
her;  King  did  not  admire  Madame  Perez,  but  Madame 
Perez  did  admire  King. 

In  spite  of  her  utter  inexperience,  she  realized  that 
visiting  the  poor,  with  a  woman  of  Madame  Perez's 
stamp,  could  only  be  the  means  to  an  end. 

And,  King  did  not  admire  Madame  Perez  now,  but 
how  long  could  such  a  state  of  affairs  last?  Abby  had 

228 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

read  very  little  in  her  life,  and  during  the  last  years 
almost  her  only  books  had  been  certain  thin,  badly 
printed,  blue  paper-bound  ones  that  came  to  Miss  Tench 
in  connection  with  a  subscription  to  a  perfectly  harm 
less,  but  highly  absurd  "  story  paper."  Years  ago,  on 
reading  the  first  of  these  tales,  Abby  Hardy  had  laughed 
at  them,  but  gradually,  in  the  absence  of  other  reading 
matter,  had  learned  first  to  read  them  seriously,  then 
with  interest,  and  finally  with  passion.  And  now,  as 
she  stitched  nervously  at  her  seam,  her  full  eyes  low 
ered,  she  felt  as  though  one  of  the  bad  angels  of  the 
books  had  come  to  life  and  applied  herself  to  the  se 
duction  of  her,  Abby's,  hero. 

"  She  is  really  ravishing,"  went  on  Miss  Ibbetts, 
suddenly,  "  so  extremely  distinguee."  Abby  could  not 
answer. 


229 


CHAPTER    XXIX 

WHEN  Hardy  came  in  that  evening,  he  was  very 
white ;  the  lines  in  his  face  looked  deeper. 

Mrs.  Hardy,  who,  contrary  to  her  habit,  was  down 
stairs  when  he  entered,  watched  him  in  silence  as  he  took 
off  his  wet  coat  and  boots  and  put  on  a  dressing-gown — 
a  new  one — and  slippers. 

"  Did  you  see  Madame  Perez  this  afternoon?  "  she 
asked,  when  he  had  sunk  into  a  chair. 

"  Madame  Perez?  No,  why?  "  he  returned,  in 
differently. 

Her  lips  shook.    "  I — wondered." 

He  had  leaned  back  and  closed  his  eyes. 

For  a  few  minutes  she  studied  his  weary  face  with  a 
keenness  that  she  felt  to  be  rather  cruel,  and  then, 
urged  by  the  unbearableness  of  her  position,  burst  out — 

"  Oh  King — but  you  did  yesterday!" 

Opening  his  eyes  he  stared  at  her  for  a  minute,  and 
then  asked,  impatiently :  ' '  What  did  I  do  yesterday  ?  ' ' 

"  You  saw — her.    You  were  with  her." 

"  Saw  whom?  Oh,  Madame  Perez.  For  Heaven's 
sake,  Abby,  don't  bother  me  with  that  woman." 

Without  the  year-long  influence  of  poor  Miss  Tench 's 
blue  books,  his  tone  would  have  satisfied  his  wife,  but 
as  it  was,  she  only  shook  her  head. 

230 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

' '  You  were  seen  with  her, ' '  she  said,  rather  solemnly. 

Controlling  himself  with  an  evident  effort,  he  said, 
gently,  "  No  doubt.  She  took  some  things  to  some 
poor  people,  and  I  went  with  her.  Why  shouldn't  I? 
Surely  you  don't  mind?  " 

"  But  I  do  mind,  King,  I  do.  I  can't  help  it.  She 
is  so  beautiful."  She  burst  into  tears  as  she  spoke,  and 
hid  her  distorted  face  in  her  hands. 

"  Abby,  Abby — you  are  not  jealous — and  at  this 
time  of  day !  Don 't  be  absurd,  my  dear.  What  is  Ma 
dame  Perez  to  me,  or  I  to  her?  ' 

"  She  is  nothing  to  you  yet,  I  know,"  she  sobbed, 
wildly,  ' '  but  you  are  to  her,  and,  and — I  am  so  old !  ' ' 

He  rose,  and  going  to  her,  laid  his  hand  on  her 
shoulder. 

"  Listen  to  me,"  he  said  slowly.  "  I  have  told  you 
that  I — that  Madame  Perez's  beauty  is  perfectly  in 
different  to  me,  and  that  personally  I'd  really  rather 
never  see  her  again.  I  don't  admire  her  character,  and 
if  she  is  to  get  on  your  nerves  this  way,  I  shall  hate  her. 
Surely  you  believe  me.  Stop  crying,  now,  and  be  sen 
sible.  I  am  utterly  upset  to-night,  and  I  need  my  wife." 

"  I  do  believe  you,  King,  I  do  indeed.  Only  I  am 
afraid  of  her." 

"  Well,  I  am  not,"  he  returned,  with  a  little  laugh. 
"  Abby — there  is  diphtheria  in  the  village." 

Springing  up  she  faced  him,  her  face  red  and 
swollen,  her  eyes  still  wet.  "  Diphtheria!  Oh,  King, 
who  has  it — and  is  it  very  bad?  " 

"  There  are  four  cases — the  Smith  children,  two  of 
231 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

them,  the  youngest  Bui-rage,  and  Mary  Snape's  baby. 
I  thought  Nora  Burrage  looked  very  bad,  yesterday, 
and  asked  Tench  to  look  in.  Just  now,  I  met  him,  and 
he  told  me.  Two  of  the  cases  are  nearly  a  week  old,  and 
not  one  of  them  had  been  declared.  After  all  I  have 
said  on  the  subject." 

"  Are  any  of  them  very  bad?  "  she  asked,  feeling 
vaguely  for  her  pocket. 

"  Yes.  The  Snape  baby  is  lost,  Tench  says,  and  he 
can't  be  sure  about  little  Nora.  It  is  a  terrible  thing, 
a  disease  like  that  in  Carbury.  The  water  supply  is 
shameful,  and  the  people  themselves,  though  they  look 
down  on  the  Pointers,  really  quite  as  dirty  as  they 
are." 

"  Will  it  be  an  epidemic,  King?  " 

"  God  knows.  Willy  Snape  is  sickening,  but  he  has 
been  inoculated — the  worst  of  it  is  that  the  serum  is 
so  dear — and  so  dangerous  if  not  absolutely  fresh. 
Tench  is  wonderfully  generous,  but  he's  not  a  rich 
man " 

"  I  can  help  a  little,  King,"  she  said,  finally  suc 
ceeding  in  finding  her  pocket,  and  taking  from  it  her 
handkerchief  and  her  shabby  little  purse.  "  I  haven't 
spent  all  my  money  for  this  month,  and  I  can  get  on 
without  new  gloves;  one  gets  so  used  to  luxuries." 

Hardy  took  the  handful  of  silver  and  looked  at  it 
sadly. 

!<  My  poor  girl.  Thank  you,  dear.  I  have  some 
thing,  too,  and  Lady  Yarrow  and — others  will  help." 

Abby  nodded.  "  I  know.  King,  why  don't  you  go 
232 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

now,  and — ask  them?  I  mean  Lady  Yarrow  and  Ma 
dame  Perez.  It  is  early,  and  dinner  can  wait  a  little." 

Hardy  felt  himself  to  be  much  more  touched  than 
the  occasion  demanded. 

After  a  pause  he  decided  to  do  as  she  suggested.  It 
would  show  her  that  he  had  not  taken  her  little  outburst 
as  having  any  serious  meaning,  and  it  would  give  him  in 
his  restlessness  the  satisfaction  of  doing,  having  done, 
something  definite. 

Back  down  the  hill  he  went  through  the  soft  rain, 
his  heart  full  of  pain. 

The  people  he  lived  among  were  dear  to  him,  and 
the  thought  of  the  danger  they  were  to  run,  above  all, 
the  danger  in  which  their  children  would  be,  should  the 
diphtheria  spread,  was  very  dreadful  to  him.  Lord 
Yarrow  had  been  in  his  grave  only  about  ten  days,  but 
no  feelings  of  conventionality  withheld  Hardy  from 
going  to  the  house  and  asking  to  see  Lady  Yarrow. 
The  butler's  hesitation  he  hardly  observed,  and,  buried 
deep  in  thought,  walked  slowly  up  and  down  the  draw 
ing-room  until  the  widow  came  in. 

He  started  at  the  sight  of  her  black  gown,  and  then, 
seeing  that  she  carried  her  baby,  his  stern  face  relaxed. 

"  It  is  good  of  you  to  see  me.  And  it  is  a  good  sign 
for  the  success  of  my  errand  that  you  have  brought — 
Yarrow  with  you." 

Mary  smiled  sadly,  and  drew  the  covering  from  the 
child's  face. 

"  Yes.    Yarrow  came  with  me.    Hush — he  is  asleep." 

Hardy  had  always  admired  her,  in  an  absent  way, 
233 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

but  it  seemed  to  him  to-night  as  though  he  stood  in  the 
presence  of  some  one  beautiful  and  wonderful.  The  very 
bend  of  her  smooth  head  as  she  looked  down  at  her  baby 
impressed  him  as  something  half  sacred. 

For  a  second  he  paused,  innocently  unconscious  that 
this  sentiment,  never  felt  by  him  in  his  wife's  case,  was 
due  to  the  mere  human  beauty  of  the  woman  before  him, 
and  then,  before  he  had  broken  the  silence,  she  spoke. 
' '  I  hear  that  there  is  diphtheria  in  your  village. ' ' 

"  Yes." 

"  I  am  so  sorry,  Mr.  Hardy.  When  I  was  told,  I 
knew  that  you  would  come,  so — we  are  prepared. ' ' 

Again  with  the  little  sad  smile  she  pointed  to  a  small 
velvet  bag  that  hung  by  a  ribbon  from  the  baby's  neck, 
resting  on  the  pillow  on  which  she  carried  him. 
'  It  is  his  first  offer — it  will  not  be  his  last. ' ' 

Slipping  the  ribbon  from  under  the  child's  neck  she 
held  the  bag  to  Hardy.  It  was  heavy. 

' '  I  think, ' '  she  went  on,  ' '  that  every  one  who  knew 
my  husband  will  miss  him,  but  I  don 't  want  you  to  miss 
him  in  that  way.  You  must  always  come,  not  to  me, 
Mr.  Hardy,  but  to  our  son,  when  you  need  money  for 
your  people,  and — he  will  help  you  all  he  can. ' ' 

Hardy  thanked  her  confusedly,  and  a  few  minutes 
later  was  once  more  outdoors,  stumbling  down  the  dark 
avenue,  the  little  bag,  so  heavy  in  proportion  to  its  size, 
bearing  down  one  of  his  pockets. 

As  he  splashed  through  the  wet  he  laid  his  plans, 
and  by  the  time  he  was  seated  in  the  Red  Room  at  Lis- 
com  House,  they  were  in  a  state  of  rough  completion. 

234 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

Madame  Perez  was  dressing  for  a  dinner  when  his  name 
was  brought  to  her. 

She  hesitated  for  a  minute  when  her  maid  had  given 
her  the  message. 

11  What  time  is  it?  " 

"  Nearly  seven,  Madame.  Shall  I  bring  Madame 's 
white  tea-gown?  " 

Madame  Perez  looked  narrowly  at  herself  in  the 
glass,  and  then,  kicking  off  her  bedroom  slippers,  sat 
down. 

"  No.  Tell  Bowles  to  ask  Mr.  Hardy  to  wait  a  few 
minutes.  Then — dress  me." 

The  dinner  was  to  be  a  large  one,  and  the  gown  on 
the  bed  was  an  elaborate  white  one,  half  covered  with 
Mechlin  lace. 

When  at  length  it  was  hooked  and  laced  to  perfection 
the  maid  fastened  a  chain  of  splendid  diamonds  about 
her  mistress 's  neck,  and  catching  up  her  gloves,  Madame 
Perez  went  downstairs. 

' '  How  do  you  do — friend  ?  ' '  she  said  softly,  coming 
in  behind  Hardy,  and  laying  her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 
He  started  up,  taken  aback  by  her  appearance,  as  she 
had  intended  him  to  be. 

"  How — beautiful  you  are,"  he  stammered,  with  the 
simplicity  of  a  child. 

"  Am  I?    I  am  glad,  if  it  gives  you  pleasure." 

She  stood  near  him,   her  hands,  holding  the   long 

gloves,   clasped  before  her.     Somehow  the  man,  pale, 

tired,  with  muddy  boots  and  a  wet  coat,  pleased  her 

more  than  ever.    lie  smiled,  dreamily,  looking  at  her  for 

16  235 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

a  second,  and  then,  with  a  little  shake  of  the  head, 
laughed  aloud  at  himself. 

' '  What  an  idiot  you  must  think  me !  Well — I  will 
not  detain  you.  I  have  come  to  beg,  Madame  Perez. ' ' 

"  To  beg?  " 

His  change  of  tone  gave  her  a  little  shock.  She  re 
called,  involuntarily,  the  scene  in  the  garden  in  his  book 
— the  scene  in  which  he  had,  with  the  realization  of  his 
forty-odd  years,  described  the  wiles  with  which  ' '  Gilda  ' ' 
had  wrung  from  the  unwilling  boy  his  first  declaration 
of  love. 

A  little  smile  stirred  her  lips  as  she  looked  at  him. 
There  was  much  of  the  boy  in  him  still. 

11  To  beg?  " 

"  Yes.  There  is  diphtheria  in  the  village — in  two 
of  the  poorest  houses  there." 

He  stood  waiting,  having  in  fact  asked  for  nothing, 
yet  waiting  for  her  to  give. 

' '  You  want  money  ?  Ah,  yes,  money  is  easy  to  give, 
and  easy  to  receive.  It  is — the  other  things  that  one 
mustn't  ask  for,"  she  returned  slowly,  looking  deep 
into  his  clear,  uncomprehending  eyes. 

"  The  other  things ?  " 

"  Yes.     Friendship — and  affection,  and — love." 

She  watched  the  shadow  of  understanding  come  to 
him,  but  held  him  fixed  with  her  gaze. 

"  I  see,"  he  said,  at  length,  "  no  reason  why  one 
should  not  ask  for  friendship  when  one  needs  it." 

"  And— affection  ?  " 

"  And— affection." 

236 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

He  did  not  move,  but  his  face  hardened  as  she  went 
on. 

"  And— love?  " 

"  Most  people  are  loved  by  some  one.  I  see  that 
every  day.  The  poorest,  least  attractive  boor  in  my 
parish  has  a  wife  who  loves  him.  It  is  in  his  house,  by 
the  way,  that  one  of  the  diphtheria  cases  is." 

Rosalba  Perez's  soft  mouth  stiffened  into  a  thin  line. 

"  Then — they  are  happy,  in  spite  of  everything," 
she  answered,  her  voice  still  studiously  gentle. 

"  How  much  money  do  you  want?  " 

Hardy  drew  a  deep  breath  of  relief.  He  had  felt 
the  danger,  without  quite  realizing  it,  and  now  it  seemed 
past. 

"  You  are  very  good.  The  more  you  can  give,  the 
better.  I  will  be  a  faithful  steward." 

She  opened  the  drawer  from  which  she  had  given 
him  her  first  offering,  on  the  occasion  of  his  first  visit, 
and  taking  from  it  the  same  purse,  handed  it  to  him. 

"  Take  it  all,  it  isn't  very  much.  And  when  you 
need  more — come  again." 

Feeling  for  some  reason  ashamed  of  himself,  he 
thanked  her.  "  You  are  very  good,  Madame  Perez — and 
we  are  friends,  you  know?  " 

She  laughed  gayly. 

'  Yes?  Then — you  may,  in  token  of  our  friendship, 
kiss  my  hand.  You  have  been  in  countries  where  it  is 
the  custom — a  pretty  custom — 

Years  ago,  in  the  warm,  heliotrope-scented  garden, 
Silvia  Aldobrandi  had  taught  him  to  kiss  her  hand, 

237 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

laughing  at  the  awkwardness  of  the  English  hand 
shake. 

He  had  taken  her  hand,  raised  it  to  his  lips,  felt  his 
heart-beats  hurry — and  then,  dropping  it  unkissed, 
caught  her  in  his  arms. 

That  had  been  the  beginning,  and  she  had  read  it  all 
in  the  book. 

For  a  minute  he  hesitated,  and  then,  making  a  half- 
caricatured  bow,  took  her  hand  on  his  finger,  and  raising 
it  in  a  grotesque  curve  to  his  mustache,  kissed  it  cere 
moniously. 

' '  You  see,  I  am  no  cavalier,  and  for  years  I  have  not 
been  out  of  ungraceful  England — so  forgive  my  awk 
wardness.  ' ' 

She  stared  at  him  in  genuine  surprise. 

His  tone,  that  of  a  half-mocking  man  of  the  world, 
was  new  in  him. 

Could  it  be  possible  that  he  had  simply  not  under 
stood  ?  Then,  as  he  took  his  hat,  and  bowing  again,  left 
the  room,  she  caught  sight  of  his  face,  and  smiled. 

He  had  understood. 


238 


CHAPTER    XXX 

SHE  was  right.  Hardy  had  understood;  and  as  he 
went  homewards,  her  money  in  his  pocket,  his  feelings 
were  very  complicated. 

His  opinion  of  her  character  being  what  it  was,  it  is 
not  surprising  that  he  was  tempted  to  look  on  her  now 
as  something  almost  inhumanly  bad. 

He  by  no  means  considered  himself  as  a  good  man. 
His  life,  which  for  years  had  been  admirably  unselfish 
and  kind,  was  as  nothing  to  him,  when  compared  with 
that  one  event  years  ago.  That  had  stamped  him  as  a 
wicked  man,  and  as  a  wicked  man  he  still  thought  of 
himself. 

He  was  a  sinner  whose  greatest  efforts  could  only 
in  a  slight  measure  cancel  his  terrible  sin.  But  his  office 
was  sacred.  As  a  clergyman  of  the  Church  of  England 
he  considered  himself  sacred,  and  this  woman  had  delib 
erately  tried  to  tempt  him.  Therefore,  she  was  to  him 
a  monster. 

She  was,  however,  a  monster  who  gave  money  to  his 
poor,  and  before  he  decided  to  renounce  her  utterly,  he 
must  consider. 

The  money  meant  a  great  deal  to  his  people;  what 
239 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

he  must  do  was  to  balance  the  pros  and  cons ;  to  decide 
whether,  in  plain  English,  the  game  was  worth  the 
candle. 

She  was  very  beautiful,  very  seductive  in  her  delight 
ful  room,  her  hand  was  very  soft,  and  he  was  a  man 
weaker,  he  thought,  than  other  men. 

"  I  should,"  he  told  himself,  with  a  gravity  that,  to 
an  outsider,  would  have  bordered  on  the  ridiculous, 
* '  have  liked  to  kiss  her  hand. ' ' 

But  he  had  resisted  her,  and  probably  she  would  let 
him  alone  in  the  future. 

Meantime,  the  money  was  there  in  his  pocket,  and 
with  it  he  could  do  a  great  deal. 

It  was  indicative  of  the  man's  essentially  simple 
character  that,  in  spite  of  his  early  experience,  the  only 
possible  parallel  in  his  life  to  this  later  one,  it  never 
occurred  to  him  that  Madame  Perez  could  be  in  love 
with  him. 

Silvia  Aldobrandi  had  been,  and  before  he  had  loved 
her,  but  even  this  suggested  nothing  to  him  in  the  present 
case. 

Madame  Perez  wanted  him  to  make  love  to  her,  him, 
a  married  man  and  a  clergyman;  therefore,  Madame 
Perez  was  a  very  bad  woman.  Further  than  that  he  did 
not  go.  He  was  a  middle-aged,  shabby,  hardworking 
man,  she  a  young,  beautiful,  rich  woman,  and  the  possi 
bility  of  her  having  been  actuated  by  other  than  motives 
of  malicious  mischief  did  not  occur  to  him.  On  his  way 
through  the  village  he  was  stopped  by  a  man  who  told 
him  that  another  case  of  diphtheria  had  appeared,  and 

240 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

that  the  doctor  was  still  at  the  house.  This  turned  his 
thoughts  into  a  new  channel,  and  he  reached  home,  his 
mind  as  innocent  as  a  baby 's  of  all  thoughts  of  the  beau 
tiful  woman  he  had  just  left. 

The  sight  of  his  wife's  face,  pale  and  anxious,  brought 
it  back  with  a  shock. 

"  King,"  she  began  at  once,  "  you  won't  go  into 
any  of  the  infected  houses,  will  you?  It  is  too  danger 
ous  for  the  children." 

Hardy  changed  his  coat  and  sat  down,  telling  her  of 
his  success  with  Lady  Yarrow  and  Madame  Perez,  and 
with  her  counted  the  money,  which  amounted  to  a  very 
large  sum. 

"  I  knew  Lady  Yarrow  would  be  generous,  King, 
but — I  am  ashamed  of  having  been  so — silly  about 
Madame  Perez.  She  is  really  very  good. ' ' 

"  She  is  very  free  with  her  money,  at  all  events.  I 
am  starving,  Abby ;  what  have  you  for  me  ?  " 

After  glancing  at  his  letters,  which  he  had  not 
noticed  before  going  out,  and  among  which  he  saw  one 
from  the  Bishop,  they  went  to  the  dining-room  and  he 
made  a  hearty  meal,  she  watching  him. 

It  struck  him  as  curious  that  to-night,  just  when  he 
had  for  the  first  time  proof  of  the  correctness  of  her 
intuitions  regarding  Madame  Perez,  she  should  be  so 
convinced  of  the  unjustness  of  her  suspicions. 

"  I  knew  all  along  that  I  was  silly,  King,  for  if  she 
was  that  kind  of  a  woman,  of  course  she  would  have 
gone  in  for  Sir  Ludovic  or  Lord  Winship — or  even  for 
poor  Lord  Yarrow,  who  admired  her  so  much." 

241 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

Hardy  poured  out  a  glass  of  ale.  "  You  mean — I'd 
be  too  humble  prey  for  her?  "  he  asked,  laughing  with 
a  slight  feeling  of  annoyance. 

"  Yes,  from  her — I  mean  the  imaginary  her — point 
of  view.  For  of  course  she  is  really  too  good  and  kind 
to  do  anything  of  the  sort — don't  you  think?  "  He 
started. 

"  My  dear  Abby,  you  do  put  the  most  difficult 
questions. ' ' 

"  I  only  meant  that  as  she  gives  so  much  to  the 
poor  she  must  be  kind,  and — anything  of  that  sort  would 
be  so  terribly  unkind." 

He  rose.  ' '  Yes,  very  unkind.  Well,  I  must  go  and 
see  what  the  Bishop  has  to  say,  and  write  one  or  two 
letters."  With  a  feeling  of  great  relief  he  closed  his 
door  behind  him,  and  sat  down. 

His  room,  still  shabby,  was  comfortable  now;  his 
chair  had  new  springs  and  was  covered  with  a  sober 
brown  imitation  leather;  the  sofa  was  re-covered,  and 
only  a  few  days  before  he  had  come  home  to  find  a  new 
rug  stretched  before  his  fireplace — a  cheap,  inartistic 
rug,  but  whole,  and  cheerful  looking.  Altogether,  there 
was  a  great  difference  between  what  the  room  had  been, 
and  what  it  was  now. 

He  frowned  and  looked  uneasily  towards  the  drawer 
in  which  "  He  and  Hecuba  "  was  locked  away.  He 
wished  the  book  was  not  there ;  the  thought  of  it  haunted 
him. 

At  length,  with  a  sigh,  he  opened  his  letters,  all  of 
them  short  and  unimportant  except  that  of  the  Bishop, 

242 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

which  he  read  last,  his  face  changing  curiously  as  he 
turned  the  closely-written  pages. 

Suddenly  he  laid  it  down  on  the  table,  and  then  for 
the  first  time  noticed  that  it  was  lithographed  from  His 
Lordship 's  handwriting. 

He  glanced  again  towards  the  locked  drawer.  It 
had  come,  then ;  that  which,  in  one  form  or  another,  had 
been  bound  to  come.  The  lock  was  of  no  avail  to  him; 
his  book  must  come  out  of  its  hiding-place,  and  he  must 
read  it. 

For  the  Bishop's  letter  announced  the  beginning  of 
his  crusade,  vigorous  and  picturesque,  against  Yellow 
Literature;  and  contained,  besides  his  brief  announce 
ment  of  his  purpose,  a  letter  sent  by  him  by  the  same 
post  to  every  clergyman  in  his  diocese,  to  be  read  by 
these  clergymen  aloud  in  church  the  following  Sunday. 
Hardy  read  the  spirited,  well-chosen  words  slowly 
through  several  times,  and  then,  opening  the  drawer  at 
his  right  hand,  took  out  "  He  and  Hecuba,"  and  began 
to  read. 

He  read  rapidly,  turning  the  pages  with  a  quick 
gesture,  never  pausing,  until  suddenly,  dropping  the 
book  to  the  floor,  he  groaned  aloud:  "My  God,  did 
I  write  that?  " 

It  seemed  hardly  possible.  The  book  was  brilliant, 
but  brilliant  as  is  a  surgeon's  knife,  flashing  as  it  cuts 
its  way  into  a  hideous  sore ;  it  was  all  true,  every  word 
of  it,  drawn  with  miniature-like  fidelity  from  the  pict 
ures  his  morbid  conscience  had  for  years  been  impressing 
on  his  memory. 

243 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

He  had  written  it,  and  yet  it  was  so  new  to  him. 
He  took  it  up,  and  read  to  the  end  without  stopping. 
Sometimes  he  laughed,  sometimes  opened  his  eyes  wide 
to  keep  the  tears  that  blinded  him  from  falling.  The 
vividness,  the  strength  of  it,  the  almost  miraculous  in 
tensity,  took  him  completely  by  surprise. 

The  end,  that  part  which  he  had  written  after  the 
dinner  at  Borrowdaile  House,  drew  the  color  from  his 
face.  It  appalled  him. 

He  had  lived  the  story;  he  had  not  added  to  it  one 
word;  it  was  absolutely  true;  yet  the  latter  part  of  it 
terrified  him  in  its  cynicism,  in  its  evil. 

The  whole  thing  was  evil,  but  this  was,  in  the  way  he 
had  told  it,  full  of  a  wicked  strength,  a  power  for  ill 
that  almost  stopped  his  heart.  And  he  had  written  it. 

At  length  he  rose,  wiping  the  sweat  from  his  face. 

"It  is  a  wonderful  book,"  he  said,  slowly,  aloud. 
"  An  amazing  book.  And  the  man  who  wrote  it  is  a  bad 
man,  and  that  man,  God  help  me,  is  I." 

As  he  finished,  some  one  knocked  at  the  door. 

"  Oh,  King,  MacDougall  has  the  croup  !  Won't  you 
come?  " 

With  a  gesture  of  despair  he  answered  from  his 
place : ' '  I  will  come  at  once,  Abby. ' ' 

He  listened  to  her  footsteps  as  she  went  upstairs, 
and  then,  going  to  the  window,  flung  it  open,  and 
leaned  out  into  the  damp  air. 

He  felt  that  he  could  not  go  to  his  wife  and  child 
without  purification. 

244 


HE    AND    HECUBA 

Then,  with  a  jarring  laugh,  he  tossed  the  book  into 
the  drawer  and  locked  it. 

"  Touching  it  can  hardly  contaminate  me,"  he  said, 
"  seeing  that  I  wrote  it." 

MacDougall  was  ill  all  night,  so  ill  that  towards 
morning  Hardy  went  for  the  doctor. 

The  rain  had  ceased,  and  the  east  was  clear  with  a 
transparent  light,  that  meant  better  weather.  Weary 
with  his  long  vigil,  the  new  trouble  for  the  time  reduc 
ing  the  older  one  to  insignificance,  Hardy  enjoyed  the 
walk  in  the  sweet  air. 

He  was  too  worn  out  for  consecutive  thought,  and 
the  relief  of  not  hearing  the  sick  child's  labored  breath 
ing  seemed  positive  happiness  to  him.  The  little  doctor 
hurried  down,  his  face  still  wrinkled  with  sleep. 

"  Poor  Mrs.  Hardy,"  he  exclaimed,  putting  on  his 
coat  by  the  light  of  a  candle.  "  She  has  her  share." 

Hardy  nodded.    "Yes.    PoorAbby." 

"  You  look  done  up  yourself,  Hardy.  You  mustn't 
burn  the  candle  at  both  ends.  You  aren't  as  young  as 
you  once  were. ' ' 

Hardy  laughed.  "  Forty-three,  Tench.  I'm  well 
enough,  but  I  haven't  been  in  bed  at  all  to-night.  I — 
was  reading. 

Tench  echoed  his  laugh,  but  in  a  more  genial  key. 
"  To  be  perfectly  honest,  so  was  I — reading!  I  read  till 
after  three,  old  fool  that  I  am.  And  a  novel,  too,  '  He 
and  Hecuba ; '  have  you  read  it  ?  " 

"  Yes.    Did— did  you  like  it,  Tench?  " 
245 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

They  had  reached  the  garden  gate. 

"  Like  it?  Well — it's  clever.  One  of  the  cleverest 
books  I  ever  read,  but  of  course,  from  your  point  of 
view,  it's  rotten." 

Hardy  laughed  again.  "  Yes,  it's  rotten,"  he  re 
peated,  opening  the  gate. 


246 


CHAPTER    XXXI 

THAT  morning's  post  brought  Hardy  a  large  cheque 
from  his  publishers,  his  share  of  the  sale  of  his  book  in 
America.  In  the  accompanying  letter,  the  publishers 
urged  him  to  send  them  another  novel  as  soon  as  pos 
sible,  offering  him  a  large  sum  for  it,  and  25  per  cent, 
on  sale.  "  The  sale  of  '  He  and  Hecuba  '  has  been  so 
phenomenal,"  they  wrote,  "  that  we  cannot  express 
strongly  enough  our  opinion  that,  by  not  bringing 
another  book  on  the  market  immediately,  both  you  and 
we  would  be  guilty  of  the  greatest  mistake. ' ' 

It  was  the  most  intense  relief  to  Hardy  to  sit  down 
at  once  and  write  an  unconditional  refusal  to  this  offer. 

"  So  help  me  God!  "  he  exclaimed,  as  he  stamped 
his  letter  with  a  blow  of  his  fist. 

What  was  done  was  done,  but  he  would  do  no  more. 
As  soon  as  he  was  at  leisure,  he  locked  his  door,  and  re 
reading  the  Bishop's  letter,  took  his  book  from  the 
drawer  and  began  it  again. 

MacDougall  was  better,  and  as  he  read,  he  could  hear 
the  regular  sound  of  his  wife's  new  rocking-chair  up 
stairs,  and  her  crooning  voice  as  she  hushed  Harold  to 
sleep. 

The  day  had  borne  out  the  promise  of  the  dawn,  and 
was  fine;  the  sun  shone  in  at  the  well-washed  windows, 

247 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

one  of  which  was  open,  and  the  narrow  strip  of  gray 
that  was  the  sea  glinted  in  the  light.  From  time  to  time 
Hardy  looked  up  from  his  reading,  and  stared  absently 
at  the  heavy-leaved  trees  outside.  The  more-  he  studied 
his  book  the  more  he  saw  the  unredeemed  badness  of  it, 
the  strength  it  held  for  evil.  And  yet,  as  he  went  on,  a 
feeling  of  pride  rose  up  in  him.  Pride  that  he  could 
have  written  it;  that  the  easy,  strong  English  was  his; 
the  knowledge  of  the  natures  described  in  it;  the  light 
sketching  in  of  scenes  that  were  as  vivid  as  pictures. 

Its  cleverness  amounted  almost  to  genius,  and  its 
cleverness  was  his. 

A  resentment  against  the  circumstances  that  pre 
vented  the  sweets  of  celebrity  being  his — a  longing  to 
tell  some  one  that  he  had  written  it,  and  a  bitter  shame 
that  he  had  been  capable  of  it,  mingled  themselves  inex 
tricably  in  his  mind. 

What  he  wanted  he  did  not  know.  The  book  was  a 
sin,  and  at  the  same  time  a  glory. 

It  carried  him  back,  ah,  how  it  carried  him  back  into 
his  youth.  He  saw,  and  felt  and  heard,  the  sights,  the 
emotions,  and  sounds  of  that  far-off  time — the  book  fell 
from  his  hands;  his  demon  had  him  fast  in  his  clutches 
again,  only,  this  time,  he  was  a  willing  victim. 

The  feeling  that  remorse  would  follow,  was  wanting, 
for  the  first  time;  he  was  young  again,  living  again, 
happy  again — and  then,  the  sunlight  ceasing  to  fall  on 
him  caused  him  to  look  up. 

Madame  Perez,  laughing,  stood  in  the  window. 

* '  Dreaming,  are  you  ?  ' '  she  said.  ' '  Dreaming  over 
248 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

the  book.  Oh,  don't  you  see  what  a  wonderful  book  it 
is?  " 

He  rose. 

"  Yes,  it  is  wonderful,"  he  said  slowly.  "  What  are 
you  going  to  do  ?  " 

"  What  am  I  goin?  to  do?  " 

"  I  mean,  are  you  coming  in?  You  have  come  to 
see  Abby  ?  ' ' 

; '  No.  I  have  not  come  to  see  Abby.  I  have  come  to 
see  you.  You,  you,  you!  "  As  she  spoke,  she  entered  the 
room.  "  Oh,  not  the  you  of  to-day.  Not  the  sombre, 
busy,  Rector  of  Carbury;  what  have  7  to  do  with  him? 
I  want  the  other  you.  The  you  of  then — the  you  of  the 
garden,  of  the  olive-grove,  of — of  the  drawing-room 
with  the  spinet.1" 

He  had  grown  white.  "  I  think  you  must  be  mad, 
Madame  Perez, ' '  he  said,  ' '  that  man  is — dead  long  ago. 
But — the  Rector  of  Carbury  is — glad  to  see  you,  and 
will— call " 

She  caught  his  arm  as  he  turned. 

"  No,  no,  stop!  Call  no  one.  And  don't  lie.  He 
is  not  dead.  He  is  alive.  Those  are  his  eyes — and  his 
head — and  his  lips — he  is  there,  but  stronger  and  more 
splendid  than  ever,  and — I  love  him." 

As  the  possibility  of  this  had  never  occurred  to  him, 
now  it  never  occurred  to  him  to  doubt  its  truth. 

He  stood,  rigidly  still,  staring  at  her,  and  then  at 
length  said:  "  You  must  go,  and  never  come  back.  I — 
I  will  try  to  forget." 

But  she  laughed.  "Forget.  You  can  not  forget. 
249 


No  man  in  the  world  could  forget.  I  love  you,  I  say,  I ! 
And  I  knew  only  last  night.  And  you  love  me,  or  you 
will  in  a  few  minutes." 

The  strangeness  of  her  last  phrase  arrested  his  atten 
tion.  ' '  Or  you  will  in  a  few  minutes. ' ' 

The  sound  of  the  rocking-chair  still  came  to  him 
through  the  thin  ceiling;  the  crooning  voice  upstairs 
went  on;  and  he  was  to  love  this  woman  in  a  few  min 
utes. 

"  You  have  read  your  book  now,"  she  went  on, 
breathlessly,  "  you  have  read  the  end.  And — you  were 
not  drunk  when  you  wrote  it;  you  were  inspired.  It 
is  all  true.  What  matters  anything  else  ?  What  does  it 
matter?  All  these  years  you  have  tried  not  to  be  that 
which  you  were  made,  and  you  have  failed !  Failed  ut 
terly  !  You  are  the  old  King  Hardy,  the  man  who  loved 
and  forgot,  and  lived." 

He  had  never  seen  her  so  beautiful  as  now  in  her 
passion. 

"  Love  is  God  of  all,"  she  went  on,  rapidly.  "  The 
poets  all  say  it,  and  they  are  right.  7  never  knew  until 
now.  If  it  were  not  true,  why  should  I,  Rosalba  Perez, 
be  here  in  this  way,  humbling  myself  to — you?  Tell 
me  that!  " 

"  I  can  tell  you  nothing,  but  you  must  go.  You 
must  go  at  once." 

He  took  her  hands  that  had  been  clinging  to  his 
unresisting  arm  and  forced  them  away  from  him;  then 
slowly,  he  pushed  her  to  the  window. 

"  Go,"  he  repeated.    "Go." 
250 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

She  was  about  to  speak  again  when  the  regular  sound 
overhead  ceased  and  footsteps  crossing  the  floor  attracted 
her  attention. 

"  Yes,  I  will  go,"  she  answered,  hastily,  glancing 
towards  the  door.  "  And  you — you  will  stay,  and  re 
member." 

The  footsteps  were  on  the  stair  now,  and  Madame 
Perez  had  disappeared.  Hardy  stood  quite  still  for  a 
minute,  and  then  pulled  the  curtains  together  with  a 
jerk,  changing  the  light  in  the  room  to  a  golden  dusk. 

His  wife,  however,  did  not  come  in,  and  shortly 
afterwards  he  heard  her  go  upstairs  again. 

He  sat  for  nearly  an  hour,  huddled  in  his  chair, 
trying  to  think,  but  succeeding  only  in  feeling  and  see 
ing  over  again  the  scene  he  had  just  been  through.  She 
had  been  right.  He  remembered.  Remembered  every 
word  she  had  said,  every  change  of  expression  in  her 
beautiful  eyes,  every  touch  of  her  hands  on  his  arm. 

He  had  told  her  she  was  mad ;  he  had  sent  her  away, 
but  he  remembered.  And  he  must  always  remember. 
Suddenly  his  foot  touched  the  book  he  had  dropped  to 
the  floor  on  first  seeing  her. 

As  if  it  had  been  a  foul  reptile  he  caught  it  up,  and 
after  staring  at  it  with  hatred  for  a  minute  or  more, 
he  knelt  by  the  fireplace,  and  wrenching  the  gaily-bound 
covers  off,  tore  the  thick  pages  across,  and  laid  it  in 
the  grate.  Then  he  set  fire  to  it,  and  watched  it  burn, 
the  flames  flickering  over  his  grim  face,  until  it  was  a 
heap  of  ashes. 

That  was  done.  Rising,  he  stood  deep  in  thought. 
17  251 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

He  had  sinned  in  writing  the  book,  and  this  was  his 
punishment.  He  was  made  the  prey  of  the  wicked  love 
of  a  wicked  woman;  he  was  living  in  comfort  provided 
by  his  own  wickedness;  his  life  was  in  vain;  he  was 
damned. 

He  could  not  read  that  letter  of  the  Bishop's  in 
church,  he,  who  had  written  the  worst  of  the  books 
against  which  the  letter  was  written. 

There  was  only  one  thing  to  be  done.  A  thing  that, 
in  the  woe  it  would  work  to  innocent  people,  would  break 
his  heart;  a  thing  that  would  probably  lose  him  his 
means  of  livelihood,  and  certainly  the  esteem  of  all  good 
men. 

And  this  thing  he  would  do.  He  would  do  it,  and 
at  once. 

Taking  his  hat,  he  went  upstairs.  The  babies  were 
asleep  in  the  tidy  room;  his  wife,  in  a  fresh,  neatly- 
made  dressing-gown  sat  sewing  by  the  window.  He 
paused  in  the  doorway.  It  was  a  homely,  comfortable 
scene,  and  the  content  in  his  wife 's  face  as  she  looked  up 
made  it  very  tragic. 

' '  Abby, ' '  he  said,  abruptly,  ' '  I  am  going  to  see  the 
Bishop — on  business.  I  can  just  catch  the  train,  and 
will  stop  the  night.  Good-by." 

"  To  see  the  Bishop,  dear?  "  she  answered,  thread 
ing  her  needle.  "  Very  well.  Have  you  packed  your 
bag — are  you  ready  ?  ' ' 

"  I  am  ready,  yes." 

"  Then,  good-by — and — King — "  She  flushed  and 
hesitated,  her  eyes  filling  suddenly.  "  Could  you  get 

252 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

me  two  yards  of  imitation  Valenciennes  about  half  an 
inch  wide?  I — I  am  making  some  things — Oh,  King, 
God  is  going  to  give  us  another  little  baby." 

Hardy  kissed  her  hastily,  and  with  a  muttered  an 
swer,  rushed  downstairs  and  out  into  the  evening. 

That  was  the  end,  then.  He  could  not  do  it.  It  was 
out  of  the  question. 


253 


CHAPTER    XXXII 

OCTOBER  passed  slowly,  nothing  happening,  beyond 
a  series  of  deaths  in  Carbury;  and  Rosalba  Perez,  alone 
with  the  passion  that  had  taken  her  so  suddenly  by 
storm,  looked  forward  with  horror  to  the  winter. 

The  epidemic,  now  an  established,  inevadable  fact, 
was  very  severe,  the  steady  bad  weather  making  the 
work  of  stamping  it  out  the  more  difficult.  Almost  every 
day  there  was  a  little  funeral,  and  most  of  the  people 
in  the  village  mourned  some  child.  Tench  did  his  best, 
and  Lady  Yarrow's  bounty  was  inexhaustible,  but  the 
disease  had  taken  a  peculiarly  virulent  form,  and  the 
good  little  man's  efforts  seemed  almost  in  vain. 

Twice,  Madame  Perez  had  seen  Hardy.  Once  as  she 
drove  home  from  Sabley-on-Sea,  she  had  met  him  walk 
ing,  and  stopping  her  carriage,  called  him. 

"  Where  are  you  going?  "  she  asked  him  perempto 
rily  in  French.  ' '  I  am  going  to  the  Point, ' '  he  answered 
in  English. 

"  May  I  drive  you?  "  she  spoke  English  too,  this 
time. 

"  Thanks,  I  prefer  to  walk." 

And  he  had  gone  on,  with  a  stiff  bow. 

The  second  time  she  saw  him  was  at  the  Dudley's, 
254 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

where,  on  going  to  the  drawing-room,  she  had  found 
him  alone. 

"  Mrs.  Dudley  asked  me  to  wait,"  he  said,  as  the 
servant  closed  the  door.  She  looked  at  him  closely  for 
a  minute  and  then  held  out  her  hand.  "  Will  you  for 
give  me  ?  I  think  I  must  have  been  mad. ' ' 

"  Yes,  I  forgive  you;  and  I  told  you  at  the  time 
that  you  were  mad." 

Her  hand,  by  a  violent  effort,  lay  passive  in  his, 
and  then  she  withdrew  it  quietly.  ' '  It  was  the  book,  I 
suppose,"  she  went  on,  with  a  reflective  smile.  "  It  is 
— horribly  human — the  book." 

Hardy  raised  his  heavy  eyes.  "It  is  a  horrible 
book,"  he  said. 

"  No,  no.  But — I  am  a  Southern  woman,  remember, 
and  I  have  never  loved;  perhaps  I  may  be  forgiven  for 
having  fallen  in  love  with  a  man  in  a  book !  ' ' 

He  flushed.  "  Anything  I  may  have  to  forgive  you 
is  forgiven  long  ago,"  he  said,  and  then  Mrs.  Dudley 
came  in  and  cut  the  conversation  short. 

As  she  went  up  the  avenue  at  Borrowdaile  House  a 
fortnight  later,  Madame  Perez  was  thinking  of  the  inter 
view.  Hardy  had  looked  very  ill,  and  very  unhappy. 
She  knew  from  one  of  her  servants  that  he  had  nearly 
fainted  in  church  the  Sunday  after  her  visit  to  him  at 
his  house,  and  had  been  prepared  for  a  change  in  him, 
but  the  haggard  lines  in  his  face  had  startled  her,  and 
the  black  half  of  his  mustache  had  grown  nearly  as 
gray  as  the  other. 

She  loved  him  with  a  fierce,  jealous  love  in  which 
255 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

there  were  many  elements,  and  she  knew  that  she  her 
self  went  for  comparatively  little  in  his  suffering.  There 
was  something  else,  and  she  could  not  understand  what 
it  could  be. 

His  book,  to  her,  was  such  an  amazing  piece  of  work 
that  she  could  not  believe  that  he  really  regretted  it. 
Nor  could  she  realize  what  his  declaration  of  authorship 
would  mean. 

It  was  a  bad  book,  but  there  are  many  such,  and 
this  one  had  so  many  redeeming  qualities,  from  her  view 
point. 

Loving  him,  she  would  have  been  proud  to  tell  every 
one  that  he  had  achieved  the  novel. 

Loving  him,  she  had  no  pride,  and  would  have  knelt 
at  his  feet  if  by  so  doing  she  could  have  assured  her 
self  of  one  spark  of  love  for  her  in  him. 

What  she  had  begun  in  mischief  had  turned  to  ter 
rible  earnest  for  her,  and  the  marks  of  mental  suffering 
were  in  her  face. 

She  did  not  even  know  whether  Hardy  loved  her, 
and  the  hopelessness  of  battering  at  the  gates  of  his 
rigid,  expressionless  coldness  drove  her  nearer  to  mad 
ness  than  any  Anglo-Saxon  can  easily  understand.  To 
have  got  into  that  book,  and  lived  for  one  hour  the  life 
of  Gilda  Cesarini,  she  would  have  given  years  of  her 
life. 

Twice  she  had  tried  to  see  Hardy,  and  failed,  once 
by  her  sending  a  message  to  him,  begging  him  to  come 
to  see  her,  once  by  sending  him  a  bank  note  for  the  poor 
people  in  the  village. 

256 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

The  message  he  had  simply  ignored,  the  money  had 
been  promptly  acknowledged  in  a  formal  note  of  three 
lines. 

And  now  there  was  a  rumor  that  one  of  his  children 
had  diphtheria,  and  she  had  come  to  see  Mary  Yarrow, 
and  learn  through  her,  if  possible,  the  truth  of  the 
report. 

The  butler  led  the  way  to  the  drawing-room,  and 
opened  the  door.  "  Her  ladyship  is  in  the  Cedar  Par 
lor,  Madame —  "  and  crossing  the  floor  to  the  opposite 
door,  she  was  about  to  go  into  the  small  room  where 
Lady  Yarrow  spent  much  of  the  time,  when  something 
arrested  her  feet,  and  she  stopped  short. 

The  Cedar  Parlor,  paneled,  as  its  name  indicated, 
with  delicately  carved  wood,  and  picked  out  with  thin 
lines  of  gilding,  was  but  faintly  lighted  by  a  tall  bronze 
lamp  near  the  dying  fire. 

The  gilding  on  the  walls  gleamed  faintly,  here  and 
there,  the  glass  fronts  of  china-cabinets  reflected  the 
reddish  light,  the  air  was  sweet  with  invisible  roses. 

On  a  low  chair  by  the  fire,  her  baby  on  her  knees, 
sat  Lady  Yarrow,  her  pure  profile  outlined  against  the 
glow  in  the  grate.  Near  by,  looking  down  at  her,  stood 
Jacques  Woodvil. 

"  Of  course  I  hated  to  come,"  he  was  saying,  "  but 
what  could  I  do?  One  can't  ignore  a  letter  like  that." 

She  nodded.  "  No.  You  had  to  come.  The  day  he 
gave  it  to  me — the  letter — he  said  something,  but  not 
much.  I  never  dreamed  of  such  a  thing." 

"  Nor  I." 

257 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

There  was  a  short  silence,  then  the  man  went  on : 

"  He  was  the  best  fellow  that  ever  lived,  Mary;  the 
very  best.  I  would  take  his  advice  on  any  other  subject 
on  God's  earth  but  this." 

' '  So  would  I.  It — must  have  been  because  he  was — 
ill." 

Woodvil  shook  his  head.  "  No.  It  was  not  that. 
He  always  felt  that  way.  Before  I  had  ever  seen  you 
he  tried  to  make  me  do  it,  and  that  time  at  Yarrow, 
when  he  saw — how  things  were  going,  he  tried  again. ' ' 

She  drew  a  quick  breath  that  was  almost  a  sigh. 

"Then?    Oh,  how  good  he  was." 

Madame  Perez,  hidden  behind  the  curtain,  under 
stood  nothing  of  the  conversation,  but  a  feeling  that  it 
was  in  some  way  of  importance  to  her,  kept  her  in  her 
place. 

"  He  was  very  good,"  Woodvil  agreed. 

Mary  looked  up  at  him.  '  Why  don 't  you  sit  down  ? 
We  have  talked  it  over,  we  have  done  as  he  wished,  we 
have  done  our  best." 

He  obeyed  her  in  silence,  and  drew  his  chair  a  little 
nearer. 

"  Yes,  we  have  done  as  he  wished,  as — as  nearly  as 
possible.  God  knows  I  wish  more  had  been  possible." 

She  was  silent,  bending  a  little  lower  over  her  baby, 
and  then,  suddenly,  laying  his  hand  on  the  baby 's  breast 
very  gently,  he  went  on :  "  Before  I  go,  won 't  you  say — 
something?  Something  for  me  to  remember?  " 

"  Something ?  " 

"  Yes.    You  did— the  other  time." 
258 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

"  The  other  time,  I  told  you  that  I  loved  you  and 
that  God  was  cruel  to  us." 

"Yes.    And— now?  " 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  his.  "  Now  I  can  only  say — 
I  love  you,  but  God  is  not  cruel  to  us." 

"  Thank  you.     Then  you  do?  " 

' '  Yes.    He  knew.    I  never  stopped ;  I  couldn  't. ' ' 

Woodvil  bent  his  curly  head  over  the  baby  until  his 
face  was  hidden.  After  a  pause  he  rose. 

"  Thank  you  for  telling  me.  Ah!  if  I  had  never 
seen  her!  " 

Rosalba  Woodvil  understood.  It  was  she  who  was 
the  obstacle. 

Without  reflection  she  stepped  out  of  the  darkness 
into  the  faint  light. 

"  Jacques,"  she  said,  abruptly,  "  I  have  heard  it 
all.  I  have  been  listening. ' ' 

"  Rosalba— you!  " 

'  No,  no — I — am  so  sorry  for  you.  Lady  Yarrow, 
/  am  his  wife,  and  he  would  have  told  you,  no  doubt, 
long  ago,  only  I  made  him  promise  not  to." 

Lady  Yarrow  had  risen,  and  stood  white  and  angry, 
her  baby  pressed  close  to  her  breast. 

' '  You  had  better  go,  Rosalba, ' '  Woodvil  said  quietly, 
' '  you  don 't  in  the  least  realize  what — listening  means  to 
English  people." 

'  Wait,  Jacques.  I  don't  care  a  pin  for  what  listen 
ing  means  to  English  people,  but  now  that  I  know — 
can't  I  help?  " 

"  Can't  you  help?    You  are  crazy." 
259 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

She  turned  to  Lady  Yarrow,  her  hands  clasped. 

"  In  God's  name,  don't  hate  me  now.  I  want  to 
help.  You  love  him  and  he  loves  you " 

Mary  Yarrow  drew  away.  "  I  cannot  possibly  dis 
cuss  this  matter  with  you,  Madame — Mrs.  Woodvil,  and 
I  will  ask  you  to  excuse  me ;  I  am  tired. ' ' 

Without  another  word  she  left  the  room,  her  black 
gown  trailing  softly  over  the  old  inlaid  floor. 

For  a  few  minutes  Jacques  Woodvil  stood  looking 
at  his  wife,  his  face  gradually  softening. 

' '  You  have  done  an  awful  thing, ' '  he  said,  at  length, 
' '  but  I  believe  you  meant  well.  As  long  as  you  heard  so 
much,  I  had  better  tell  you  that  Lord  Yarrow  left  a 
letter  for  me  in  which  he — expressed  a  wish  that  I 
should  divorce  my  wife — and  marry  Lady  Yarrow, 
whom  I  have  known  for  years.  I  was  obliged  to  see  her, 
as  he  insisted  on  it,  but — I  am  leaving  for  India  next 
week. ' ' 

Her  eyes  did  not  waver ;  she  looked  at  him  as  stead 
ily  as  he  at  her,  and  still  he  saw  the  curious  new  look  in 
her  eyes. 

"  Jacques — must  you  go?  " 

"  Must  I  go?  "  he  burst  into  a  short  laugh.  "  If  I 
stayed — what  then  1  ' ' 

"  Couldn't  you  do  as  he  wished.  I  mean,  couldn't 
you  divorce  me  1  " 

"  Nonsense,  Rosalba.  You  know  that  I  can't — 
without  an  awful  scandal." 

Taking  up  a  box  of  cigarettes,  he  lighted  one,  and 
puffed  at  it  impatiently. 

260 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

"  I  don't  mind  the  scandal.  And  if  he  thought  it 
right,  why,  it  is  right,"  she  went  on  doggedly.  "  He 
was  very  good,  and  he  knew." 

Woodvil  took  out  his  watch.  ' '  It  is  late,  and  I  have 
just  time  to  catch  my  train.  Good-by. " 

He  held  out  his  hand.  "  Jacques — at  least  believe 
that  I  am  sorry.  I  admire  her  very  much,  and — I  loved 
him." 

He  did  not  misunderstand  her  meaning. 

"  He  deserved  it.  I  do  believe  that  you're  sorry, 
Rosalba.  Good-by. ' ' 

"  Wait.  You  must  say  good-by  to  her.  I'll  fetch 
her." 

Without  thinking  of  the  rebuff  that  probably  awaited 
her,  she  hurried  upstairs,  and  down  the  corridor  to  Lady 
Yarrow's  room. 

"  He  is  going,"  she  said,  without  any  preface,  "  go 
and  say  good-by  to  him." 

Mary  rose  and  looked  at  her  haughtily,  but  the  other 
woman  was  too  much  in  earnest  to  mind.  "  Oh,  go," 
she  insisted,  "  whatever  I've  done,  he  is  innocent,  and 
he  may  never  come  back." 

Lady  Yarrow  left  the  room  without  speaking,  and 
Rosalba  Perez  followed  her  as  far  as  the  drawing-room 
door,  and  then,  passing  on,  left  the  house. 

Mary,  after  an  instant's  hesitation,  went  into  the 
Cedar  Parlor,  and  with  a  few  words  parted  once  more 
from  Jacques  Woodvil. 


261 


CHAPTER    XXXIII 

KING  HARDY  had  never  been  a  happy  man,  but  the 
agony  he  suffered  during  that  autumn  was  so  keen  as 
to  make  the  preceding  years  look,  in  retrospect,  blissful 
to  him.  He  had  read  the  Bishop's  letter  that  Sunday, 
in  church,  pronouncing  the  words  with  difficulty,  but 
forcing  himself  to  enunciate  each  one  very  distinctly, 
and  in  a  strange  monotonous  voice  that  seemed  to  be 
that  of  another  man.  His  wife's  announcement  to  him, 
as  he  was  on  the  point  of  going  to  the  Bishop  and  avow 
ing  his  authorship  of  "  He  and  Hecuba,"  had  taken 
his  strength  away  from  him.  In  a  flash  he  had  seen 
things  as  they  had  been,  as  they  must  inevitably  become 
again  should  he  give  up  the  money  the  book  was  bring 
ing  him. 

He  shuddered  as  he  remembered  his  despair  a  few 
months  ago;  he  had  even,  in  his  bitter  poverty,  ques 
tioned  the  right  of  God  to  send  him  children  without 
providing  the  means  for  bringing  them  up  as  the 
children  of  a  gentleman  should  be  brought  up. 

He  remembered  the  horror  of  the  autumn  days  the 
year  before;  the  cold;  the  insufficient  food;  the  soiled 
table  cloths ;  the  brutalizing  untidiness  of  everything. 

262 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

He  recalled  with  even  greater  horror  the  effect  of 
these  things  on  himself ;  his  resentment ;  his  weak  despair, 
what  had  grown  to  be  at  times  almost  a  loathing  for 
the  children  of  whom  the  worst  side  of  him  was  ashamed. 

And  if  he  confessed  to  the  Bishop,  giving  up  the 
money  he  had  saved,  and  that  which  was  to  come  to  him 
from  foreign  editions  of  his  book,  all  these  things  would 
come  back,  accentuated  to  him  a  hundred-fold  after 
the  months  of  respite  he  had  had. 

And  after  all,  had  he  the  right  to  sacrifice  his 
children  to  his  own  ease  of  conscience? 

The  sophistry  of  this  reasoning  he  did  not  see,  but 
during  the  four  days  before  the  Sunday  on  which,  by 
reading  the  Bishop 's  letter  in  church,  he  must  decide  for 
either  the  one  line  of  action  or  the  other,  he  argued  it 
over  and  over  with  himself  by  the  hour. 

The  strength  of  his  nature  allowed  him  to  keep 
his  mind  unceasingly  concentrated  on  the  problem,  even 
while  he  \vent  mechanically  through  his  round  of  duties ; 
the  weakness  that  was  in  him  hid  from  his  honest  eyes 
the  falsity  of  his  reasoning. 

At  last  he  had  decided. 

It  was  a  choice  of  evils;  a  choice  of  suffering  for 
him.  Either  by  securing  the  peace  of  a  quiet  conscience 
he  must  ruin  the  lives  of  his  wife  and  children,  or  by 
securing  to  them  the  comparative  comfort  that  was 
theirs  now,  he  must  take  to  his  heart  a  burden  that 
would  grow  heavier  as  the  years  went  on,  and  be  prob 
ably,  in  the  end,  his  damnation. 

The  effect  this  book  had  had  on  Madame  Perez 
263 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

brought  home  to  him  more  clearly  than  could  have  any 
number  of  critiques  the  evil  of  the  thing  he  had  done, 
and  his  morbid  mind,  exaggerating  that  evil,  began 
to  see  in  the  novel  fatal  harm  to  every  one  who  touched 
it. 

Once,  coming  back  from  London,  where  he  had  been 
on  business  connected  with  his  late  aunt,  a  young  girl 
in  the  carriage  with  him  was  reading  the  book.  He 
watched  her  cut  a  few  pages,  and  leaning  back  in  her 
place,  listlessly  turn  the  first  pages.  She  was  a  pretty 
girl  with  curly  reddish  hair,  on  which  perched  a  fur 
toque  trimmed  with  violets.  While  she  read,  Hardy 
studied  her  face;  he  saw  the  listlessness  vanish,  a  new 
light  come  to  her  eyes.  The  charm  of  the  thing  had 
reached  her. 

Counting  the  pages  as  she  turned  them,  he  could 
about  keep  pace  with  her  in  the  story. 

Now  she  had  come  to  the  scene  in  the  olive-grove — 
now  she  was  in  the  dusky  old  church  at  early  mass, 
now — it  was  evening  in  the  garden 

Leaning  forward  he  found  himself  saying :  ' '  Pardon 
me,  but — who  gave  you  that  book  to  read?  " 

The  girl  started,  stared  at  him,  and  then,  seeing  that 
he  was  a  clergyman,  answered,  ' '  No  one.  I  bought  it. ' ' 
Something  about  her  upper  lip  reminded  him  of  his  little 
daughter  Anna. 

"Will  you  excuse  me  for  suggesting  that  you  ask 
your  mother  to  read  it,  before  you  go  any  further?  " 

"  My  mother!    Is  it  so  bad  as  that?  " 

"  It  is  very  bad, ' '  he  returned,  gravely.    ' '  Very. ' ' 
264 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

Smiling  at  him,  her  pretty  eyes  full  of  mischief: 
"  Then  I  shouldn't  think  of  giving  it  to  mamma.  I  am 
very  particular  about  what  she  reads." 

In  his  earnestness  he  hardly  understood,  and  she 
saw  it. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon;  one  gets  so  in  the  way  of 
'  chaffing;  '  if  the  book  is  so  awful  I'll  not  read  it, 
and — I  am  sure  my  father  would  thank  you  for  telling 
me,  if  he  were  here." 

With  a  last  look  at  the  enchanting  page  she  closed 
the  book  and  handed  it  to  Hardy.  "  You  must  take  it, 
though,  or  I  can't  resist,"  she  said,  "it  is  frightfully 
interesting." 

They  were  passing  over  a  bridge  as  she  spoke,  and 
Hardy,  opening  the  window,  threw  the  book  into  the 
water — felt  as  if  he  had  rescued  the  girl  from  ever 
lasting  flames. 

The  long,  gray  days  dragged  by,  drenched  in  warm, 
unhealthful  rain.  In  the  village  the  epidemic  still  raged, 
strengthened  by  the  bad  weather,  and  Hardy,  doing  in 
his  despair  the  work  of  three  men,  grew  thin  and 
old. 

He  had  rented  a  long-deserted  cottage  not  far  from 
his  own  house,  and  there,  with  Tench's  help,  made  for 
himself  a  kind  of  quarantine. 

In  a  chest  of  drawers,  the  only  furniture  in  the  house 
beside  a  bed  and  two  wooden  chairs,  he  kept  linen  and  a 
couple  of  suits  of  clothes,  and  hither  he  came,  after  his 
visits  to  the  infected  houses,  to  change  and  fumigate 
himself  before  going  home. 

265 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

For  he  could  not  keep  away  from  the  houses  of 
mourning.  Going  into  danger,  helping  with  his  own 
hands  the  poor  suffering  people,  was  the  only  way  in 
which  his  tortured  mind  received  a  little  calm.  The 
precautions  he  took  were  for  the  sake  of  his  family; 
he  felt  a  sort  of  savage  pleasure  in  risking  his  own 
life. 

Mary  Yarrow,  shut  up,  on  her  baby's  account,  in 
her  park,  was  his  greatest  help  at  this  time.  Every  day 
she  sent  a  great  wagon-load  of  soup,  milk,  wine,  and 
other  things  to  Tench's  temporary  headquarters  in  the 
village,  and  whatever  money  was  needed  had  only  to  be 
asked  for. 

When,  early  in  December,  the  disease  began  to  rage 
among  the  grown  people  as  well  as  the  children,  Hardy 
wrote  to  her  that  they  must  have  nurses,  and  a  few 
days  later  she  had  provided  six,  from  a  London  hospital. 

Hardy  at  this  time  saw  very  little  of  his  wife  and 
children.  Abby,  in  spite  of  his  precautions,  was  in  a 
state  of  helpless  terror,  watching  the  children  with  an 
agonized  scrutiny,  and  every  time  Hardy  touched  one  of 
them  he  saw  in  her  eyes  a  dumb  reproach. 

There  was  in  her  no  courage  with  which  to  meet 
an  emergency,  and  pitying  her,  as  well  as  vaguely  re 
lieved  by  being  alone,  he  spent  more  and  more  of  his 
spare  time  in  the  little  cottage  by  the  bridge,  sleeping 
there,  at  last,  almost  every  night.  He  had  chosen  his 
evil,  of  the  two  that  he  believed  to  have  been  offered  to 
him,  but  it  was  a  very  hard  one  to  bear,  and  he  had  not 
learnt  to  forget  it. 

266 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

The  memory  of  Madame  Perez,  too,  was  always  with 
him.  He  had  had  the  strength  to  put  her  away  from 
him,  and  to  refuse  to  see  her,  but  he  had  none  to  pre 
vent  the  picture  of  her  standing  there  in  his  study 
coming  to  him  perpetually. 

The  old  torture  of  remembering  the  days  when  he  had 
loved  Silvia  Aldobrandi,  was  gone — the  demon  laid  by 
his  writing  the  book — but  this  newer  memory  was  a 
worthy  substitute,  in  point  of  strength,  to  make  him 
suffer. 

He  realized  perfectly  that  he  did  not  love  Madame 
Perez ;  that  his  feeling  for  her  had  grown  out  of  vanity, 
and  was  a  base  one.  This  he  told  himself  over  and  over 
again,  but  it  did  no  good. 

He  despised  her,  he  almost  hated  her,  but  he  longed 
to  see  her  with  a  strength  that  terrified  him. 

Disgusted  with  his  weakness,  he  struggled  against  it, 
prayed  for  help  against  it,  and  felt  his  struggles  and 
his  prayers  to  be  in  vain. 

He  could  keep  away  from  her,  but  if  he  should  see 
her,  whence  could  he  take  the  strength  to  resist  what 
he  called,  by  a  curious  old-fashioned  word,  her  wiles? 

He  had  not  lost  his  faith  in  God,  he  had  lost  his 
faith  in  himself. 

One  evening  as  he  sat  over  his  fire  in  the  cottage, 
a  knock  came  to  the  door,  and  he  knew,  with  a  reason 
less,  absolute  surety,  that  Rosalba  Perez  stood  without. 

Rising  very  softly,  he  stepped  across  the  floor  and 
turned  the  key  in  the  lock.  ' '  Who  is  there  ?  ' ' 

"  It  is  I— Rosalba." 

18  2G7 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

"  I  can  not  let  you  in." 

She  laughed  angrily.  "Nonsense,  I  won't  eat  you, 
and  it  is  pouring." 

' '  I  can  not  let  you  in. ' ' 

The  ridiculous  side  of  the  situation  did  not  occur  to 
him,  but  it  did  to  her,  and  she  laughed  again. 

He  was  silent. 

' '  I  told  you  at  Mrs.  Dudley 's  that  I  was  sorry ;  that 
I  had  been  a  goose, ' '  she  went  on.  ' '  Are  you  afraid  of 
me?  " 

"  Yes." 

' '  Ah !  ' '  There  was  triumph  in  her  little  exclama 
tion.  ' '  You  are  afraid  of  me.  Then — you  love  me. ' ' 

"  I  do  not  love  you.    But " 

"  But ?  " 

'  There  is  no  use  in  this.    I  will  not  let  you  in,  and 
you  will  take  cold." 

He  had  sat  down,  facing  the  painted  deal  door. 

"  I  will  go,"  she  said,  "  if  you  will  explain  your 
'but.'" 

(<  I  was  going  to  say  that  there  is  evil  in  every  man, 
and  that  you  appeal  to  the  evil  in  me." 

She  burst  out  laughing.  "  I  feel  like  the  temptress 
in  a  play.  I  should  wear  a  scarlet  gown  like  Athendis 
in  the  '  Maitre  des  Forges. '  ' ' 

As  he  did  not  answer,  she  went  on,  in  another  tone: 

"Very  well;  good-by,  Pyramus.  Dream  of  me." 
Then  she  was  gone. 

He  waited  for  some  minutes,  wondering  at  the  in 
credible  vulgarity  of  her  coming  to  him  there  at  that 

268 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

hour;  the  absence  of  all  pride  in  her  gave  him,  in  spite 
of  his  disdain  of  her,  a  shock. 

He  was,  on  the  whole,  however,  glad  that  it  had 
happened.  He  was  a  gentleman,  and  this  woman,  in 
spite  of  her  beauty  and  position,  could  not  be  what  he 
had  been  taught  to  consider  a  lady.  The  memory  of  his 
conversation  through  the  door  with  her  would  surely 
help  to  cure  him  of  his  strange  longing  for  her. 

After  a  time  he  rose,  and  opened  the  door.  A  little 
fresh  air  would  do  him  good. 

Pausing  for  a  minute  on  the  threshold,  and  looking 
up  the  hill  towards  the  light  in  the  window  where  his 
wife,  he  knew,  sat  at  work,  he  stepped  out  on  the  damp 
grass. 

As  he  did  so,  a  burst  of  mischievous  laughter  caused 
him  to  turn,  and  Madame  Perez,  her  face  glowing  in  the 
lamp-light,  stood  by  him. 

"  Caught!  "  she  cried.    "  Poor  little  bird!  " 

He  did  not  attempt  to  control  the  expression  of  his 
eyes,  and  as  she  caught  it,  she  flinched. 

"  Ah,  yes — vulgar  and  base,"  she  said,  pushing 
back  the  shawl  she  wore  over  her  head. 

"  My  good  man,  have  you  no  sense  of  humor?  Can 
you  not  see  that  it  was  all  a  comedy?  Do  you  seriously 
believe  that  I  love  you?  " 

He  flinched  in  his  turn.  "  My  sense  of  humor,  what 
ever  it  may  be,  is  quite  beside  the  question,  Mrs.  Wood- 
vil.  I  do  not  understand  you,  that  is  true  enough.  What 
you  do  not  understand,  apparently,  is  that  I  have  no 
wish  to  study  you — and  no  time.  My  opinion  of  the  way 

269 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

in  which  you  lower  your  womanhood  by  doing  as  you 
have  done,  would  not  interest  you,  so — I  will  say  good 
night." 

Bowing  very  low,  he  passed  her  and  went  into  the 
cottage. 


270 


CHAPTER    XXXIV 

"  OH,  King,  if  you  had  only  listened  to  me!  " 

It  was  a  very  gentle,  pitiful  reproach,  but  it  stung 
him  sharply  as  he  looked  into  her  wan  eyes  and  sought 
for  an  answer  that  he  could  not  find. 

"  You  could  do  no  good  in  the  village,"  she  went 
on,  wringing  the  thin  hands,  "  and,  now— 

A  low,  muffled  wail  coming  from  the  half-open  door 
near  which  they  stood,  interrupted  her.  "  Oh,  my  God, 
my  God !  ' '  she  exclaimed,  as  she  left  him. 

lie  stood  still  in  the  dimly-lighted  corridor,  looking 
after  her,  seeing  her  still  after  she  had  gone;  a  thin, 
shapeless  figure  in  a  loose  dressing-gown,  with  untidy, 
scanty  hair,  and  a  drawn,  thin  face. 

She  was  so  pitiably  thin. 

Through  the  half-open  door  he  could  see  part  of  the 
bed,  the  table  laden  with  bottles,  glasses,  spoons,  the 
quiet  figure  of  the  nurse  rising  as  his  wife  went  in. 

The  clock  struck  eleven;  Tench  said  he  would  come 
before  midnight. 

Slowly,  feeling  his  own  uselessness,  he  went  down 
stairs  and  into  his  study,  his  head  fallen  forward  on  his 
breast. 

It  was  Christmas  eve,  and  the  irony  of  it  brought  a 
smile  to  his  grim  face. 

271 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

Christmas  eve,  and  Anna  was  lying  there  being 
choked  to  death  by  the  horrible  film  in  her  throat;  and 
the  germ  of  that  film  he  had  brought  to  her.  Had  given 
it  to  her  with  a  kiss,  probably,  or  a  touch  of  the  hand. 
It  was  characteristic  of  the  man  that  he  did  not  give 
the  least  consideration  to  the  fact  of  his  having  un 
doubtedly  taken  all  possible  precautions  against  in 
fection  ;  what  he  had  done  was  of  no  avail,  hence  of  no 
importance ;  as  a  punishment  for  his  sin,  God  had  made 
him  the  cause  of  his  child's  death. 

Rigidly,  doggedly,  he  accepted  this  view  of  the  case, 
and  made  no  excuses,  asked  no  extenuation. 

He  had  been  living  on  the  devil 's  bounty,  and  thank 
ing  God  for  it ;  now  he  knew  better. 

Madame  Perez  had  gone  out  of  his  mind  altogether; 
he  had  not  unduly  blamed  himself  for  his  feeling  for 
her,  for  he  looked  on  her  as  a  wicked  woman  who  delib 
erately  tempted  him. 

Now  he  had  forgotten  her,  and  could  think  only  of 
the  children  God  had  sent  into  the  world  to  be  ruined 
by  him,  their  father.  A  sudden  blasphemous  doubt 
quivered  through  him.  God  1 

Tench  found  him  crouched  in  the  low  chair  by  his 
empty  grate,  his  face  almost  blank  with  the  exhaustion 
of  prolonged  mental  suffering. 

"  Come,  come,  Hardy,  this  won't  do,"  the  little 
doctor  exclaimed,  one  hand  laid  on  the  other  man's 
shoulder.  "  You  are  nothing  but  skin  and  bone  now, 
and  you  will  die  if  you  let  yourself  go  on  in  this  way. ' ' 

"  God  has  let  me  go,  Tench." 
272 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

"  Nonsense,  man.  Come,  your  wife  wants  you.  You 
must  be  brave  for  her  sake." 

"  And  Anna?  " 

"  Anna  can  not  live  through  the  night,  Hardy.  I 
have  done  all  I  could." 

Hardy  rose  without  a  word,  and  walked  steadily 
upstairs.  Abby  was  sitting  by  the  bed,  watching  the 
distorted  face  of  the  agonized  child.  "  Pray,  King!  " 
she  said,  as  he  entered,  and  obediently  he  fell  on  his 
knees. 

No  words  came,  however,  and  dumbly  they  waited. 
That  for  which  they  waited  came  quietly  at  dawn,  and 
then  Hardy  carried  his  wife  into  the  next  room  and  laid 
her  on  the  bed. 

He  himself  was  conscious  of  nothing  but  an  over 
whelming  fatigue,  and,  sitting  down  by  the  frosted 
window,  fell  into  a  sleep  that  lasted  until  morning. 

The  next  day  passed  dully,  and  on  Tuesday,  Mac- 
Dougall  sickened. 

Hardy  had  never  loved  this  child  as  much  as  he  had 
the  others;  he  was  a  clumsy,  fretful,  unattractive  boy 
who  had  all  his  short  life  given  trouble  in  one  way  or 
another.  Now,  suddenly,  the  father-love  tacitly  denied 
him  sprang  up  in  Hardy's  heart,  and  it  seemed  to  the 
man  as  if  this  child  was  the  one  for  whom  he  could 
sacrifice  any  two  of  the  others.  Remorse  had  laid  his 
heavy  hand  on  him  once  more.  Tench  at  first  was  hope 
ful,  then  suddenly,  one  noon,  the  child  died.  The 
children  had  all  been  taken,  on  the  first  signs  of  Anna's 
illness,  down  to  the  hospitable  house  beyond  the  village, 

273 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

where  kind  Miss  Tench  had  so  often  harbored  them,  but 
MacDougall  had  been  brought  home  as  soon  as  the 
nature  of  his  symptoms  had  declared  themselves,  and 
Hardy  and  his  wife  and  the  faithful  Katie  had  lived 
there  in  quarantine  ever  since,  aided  by  the  nurse  Mary 
Yarrow  sent,  and  whose  presence  was  accepted  as  a 
matter  of  course  by  the  Rector  and  his  wife. 

The  day  MacDougall  was  buried,  it  rained,  and  the 
wind  and  dampness  were  acceptable  to  Hardy  as  he  read 
the  short  service. 

He  had  reached  the  pitch  of  mental  numbness,  and 
hardly  realized,  as  he  repeated  the  solemn  words,  that 
the  child  in  the  little  coffin  was  his  own.  February  had 
gone,  and  spring  would  soon  be  coming;  there,  on  the 
bank  opposite  the  churchyard,  the  first  violets  always 
came.  He  raised  his  heavy  eyes  and  looked  up  the 
dingy,  rain-soaked  slope.  Violets. 

When  he  reached  home  it  hardly  shocked  him  to 
find  his  wife  gone  to  bed  with  a  bad  throat.  It  was  all 
of  a  piece  with  the  rest.  It  was  his  punishment;  she 
would  die;  he  would  live  on;  it  was  God's  Vengeance. 

That  God  sets  Mercy  before  Vengeance,  did  not 
occur  to  him.  His  eyes  had  never  been  darkened  by 
thoughts  of  pity ;  he  believed  in  the  old  God  of  the  Old. 
Testament,  and  as  he  had  sinned,  that  God  was  bound 
to  punish  him. 

It  was  part  of  his  punishment  that  he  should  live. 
Blessed  Death  was  not  yet  for  him.  The  doctor  looked 
very  grave  after  his  short  examination  of  Mrs.  Hardy, 
but  could  not  yet  be  sure  of  the  nature  of  her  illness. 

274 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

The  next  day,  a  Sunday,  he  was  sure.  It  was  diph 
theria. 

Hardy  listened  to  him  very  quietly,  assented  to  all 
that  he  said,  and  then  went  upstairs. 

"  Oh,  King,"  the  sick  woman  began  at  once,  "  you 
will  be  all  alone!  " 

"  Yes.  All  alone."  That  she  might  recover  did  not 
occur  to  either  of  them  as  a  possibility. 

He  sat  holding  her  hand  for  a  time  in  silence,  and 
then  began  to  speak,  slowly,  distinctly,  in  methodically 
arranged  words. 

"  Abby,  this  is  all  my  fault." 

' '  No,  King ;  no,  dear.  You  did  everything  the  doctor 
told  you — Oh,  my  head  aches  so!  " 

"  It  is  my  fault.  Years  ago,  when  I  was  young,  I 
committed  a  terrible  sin.  The  mills  of  God  grind  slowly, 
but  they  grind  exceeding  small!  " 

She  looked  up  blankly.  "  "What  mills,  dear?  We 
have  plenty  of  flour — King,  my  head  aches  so !  " 

When  night  came,  he  still  sat  beside  her,  her  hot 
hand  in  his  cold  ones. 


275 


CHAPTER    XXXV 

LADY  YARROW  had  not  seen  Madame  Perez  since  that 
day  in  early  November  when  Woodvil  had  gone  away, 
and  now  it  was  the  third  of  March. 

Shortly  after  the  curious  interview  in  the  Cedar 
Parlor,  Borrowdaile  House  had  presented  to  the  world  a 
blank  face ;  little  Lord  Yarrow  and  his  mother  had  gone 
to  spend  the  holidays  with  Lady  Sally  Wincott,  near 
Yarrow,  the  great  place  that  had  been  closed  since  the 
death  of  the  old  lord. 

Lady  Sally  lived  in  a  charming  house,  every  inch 
of  which  Lady  Yarrow  knew,  as  she  had  spent  her 
motherless  girlhood  there,  and  been  married  under  its 
roof.  The  mistress  of  the  house,  a  clever,  asthmatic 
woman,  now  growing  older  and  sharper-tongued  than  of 
yore,  welcomed  her  two  guests  with  delight,  and  was 
enthusiastic  enough  about  the  baby  to  satisfy  even  his 
rather  exigent  mother. 

"  Rebecca  wrote  me  all  the  particulars,"  she  said, 
one  morning,  as  the  two  ladies  sat  together  in  the  cheer 
ful  drawing-room,  both  busy  with  needle-work.  "  I  am 
glad  he  lived  to  see  his  son,  poor  fellow." 

Mary  looked  up.  "  Yes.  It  made  us  both  very 
happy. ' ' 

276 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

"  Happy!  Well — h'm — perhaps  happy  is  hardly 
the  word,  Mary." 

"  I  think  it  is,  Aunt  Sally." 

"  He  was  dying,  my  love." 

The  younger  woman  did  not  speak  for  a  moment, 
for  her  aunt,  of  whom  she  was  very  fond,  was  not  the 
person  she  would  have  chosen  as  a  confidante. 

Then,  as  she  had  no  alternative  but  that  of  a  silence 
which  began  to  tell  on  her  nerves,  she  went  on : 

"  I  don't  think  he  minded  dying." 

Lady  Sally's  thread  broke  with  a  snap.  "  Not  mind 
dying!  Then,  my  dear,  you  hadn't  made  him  happy. 
A  man  who  has  a  new-born  son  doesn't  want  to  die  if 
he  is  happy." 

Mary  turned  her  face,  a  little  worn  and  aged,  to  the 
window,  about  which  the  bare  boughs  of  the  birches 
tossed  drearily. 

"  Dear  Aunt  Sally,  do  you  know,  you  are  the  only 
blood-relation  I  have  in  the  world?  You  mustn't  be 
unkind  to  me,  when  I  come  to  you  for  sympathy. ' ' 

"  Unkind,  Mary?  I  don't  want  to  be  that;  but  you 
are  hard  to  understand." 

"  You  used  to  say  I  had  no  conscience;  do  you  re 
member?  You  were  wrong,  for  I  have  so  much,  so 
much!  Too  much,  I  have  often  thought,  for  Yarrow 
was  right  in  saying  that  I  couldn't  help  it." 

"  Help  what?  "  Lady  Sally  looked  up  alertly.  She 
was  fond  of  her  niece,  but  Mary  had  never  before  made 
any  of  the  ordinary  uses  of  the  blood-tie  that  bound 
them ;  her  aunt  had  never  got  near  her,  and  she  knew  it. 

277 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

Lady  Yarrow  rose,  and  taking  the  baby  from  the 
nest  of  cushions  on  a  sofa  where  he  was  sleeping,  came 
back  to  her  chair. 

"  Aunt  Sally — you  remember  Jacques  Woodvil?  " 

"  Of  course  I  do,  and  I  must  say  I  considered  it, 
Well,  to  say  the  least — imprudent  of  Yarrow  to  have  him 
at  Borrowdaile. " 

' '  Imprudent  ?    What  do  you  mean  ?  ' ' 

Lady  Sally  did  not  dare  say  what  she  had  meant, 
nor,  as  she  looked  at  her  niece,  was  she  quite  sure  of 
having  meant  anything  at  all. 

"  Yarrow  knew  all  about  it,"  Mary  went  on,  when 
the  sudden  change  in  the  old  lady's  expression  had 
pacified  her  anger. 

"  He  knew  all  about  it  before  I  married  him.  And 
he  never  forgot  it.  And  he  also  knew — what  I  couldn't 
help — that  I  never  forgot — Jacques.  Aunt  Sally,  tell 
me — tell  us,  that  I  really  did  my  best!  " 

Lady  Sally  was  embarrassed.  She  was  an  intensely 
practical  woman,  with  little  understanding  of  any  kind 
of  sentimentality,  and  this  sudden  emotional  appeal 
from  her  self-contained  niece  troubled  her. 

She  had  not  been  there  to  see;  she  knew  little  of 
what  Mary  had  done  in  the  matter — how  could  she  tell 
her  that  she  had  done  her  best? 

"  My  dear  child,"  she  said  slowly,  "  I  hope  you 
did.  Borrowdaile — Yarrow  was  a  very  good  man." 

Mary  held  her  little  Yarrow  closer,  and  looked  into 
his  face. 

"  I  did  try,"  she  said,  very  low.  "  And  in  a  way 
278 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

I  loved  him  better  than  any  one  in  the  world.  He  was  so 
good  that  I  would  have  cut  off  my  right  hand  to  have 
been  to  him  all  that  he  needed — to  give  to  him  all  he 
deserved!  It  is  this  that  has  so  tormented  me,  Aunt 
Sally.  I  did  my  best,  but  it  was  not  enough.  I  gave 
him  almost  everything,  but  that  one  little  part  of  me 
I  couldn't  give  him,  and  he  knew  it.  And  he  was  so 
good!  " 

She  broke  off  with  a  little  cry  of  pain. 

Lady  Sally  fought  savagely  against  her  own  dumb 
ness  for  a  moment,  and  then,  suddenly,  bent  over  the 
sleeping  baby.  "  Mary,  how  he  looks  like  his  father!  " 

And  then  the  much-needed  tears  came,  and  Mary 
Yarrow  let  them  fall  unheeded  on  the  little  face  on  her 
bosom,  for  they  were  good  tears  and  could  not  hurt  it. 
She  told  her  aunt  about  Yarrow 's  letter  to  Woodvil ; 
that  Woodvil  had  come  to  her,  and  that  he  had  left  her 
as  he  left  her  years  ago,  because  he  was  tied  to  a 
worthless  woman. 

Lady  Sally's  amazement  at  the  identity  of  the 
beautiful  Madame  Perez,  with  the  woman  in  question, 
knew  no  bounds,  and  her  indignation  with  Woodvil  for 
tamely  submitting  to  his  bondage,  brought  back  a  smile 
to  her  niece's  sad  face. 

"  Aunt  Sally,  Aunt  Sally,  you  an  advocate  for 
divorce !  What  would  the  Rector  say !  ' ' 

"  I  don't  care,  my  dear,  it  is  absurd.  He  has  every 
right  to  get  rid  of  her,  and  he  ought  to  do  it — for  your 
sake." 

Mary's  face  was  a  little  proud  as  she  dabbed  her 
279 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

tears  gently  from  her  baby's  face.  "  He  has  no — right 
to  do  anything  for  my  sake,  Aunt  Sally — and  I  have  my 
son." 

The  winter,  which  brought  such  disaster  to  Carbury, 
was  mild  and  pleasant  in  more  healthful  Yarrow,  and 
Lady  Yarrow's  placid  face  soon  bore  no  sign  of  other 
than  a  natural  grief,  while  the  little  Yarrow  grew  strong 
and  rosy. 

Once  or  twice  Mary  heard  from  Mr.  Dudley;  then 
he  was  called  to  the  Riviera  to  a  dying  sister,  and  for 
several  weeks  she  heard  no  news  from  Borrowdaile. 
One  day  in  early  February,  she  received  a  letter 
from  King  Hardy,  asking  for  more  money  for  his  poor 
people,  and  telling  briefly  of  the  continued  distress  in 
his  village. 

When  she  sent  the  check,  she  wrote  him,  asking  for 
a  more  comprehensive  account  of  the  epidemic,  and  also 
asking  casually  for  news  of  Madame  Perez. 

Hardy  in  replying  said:  "  I  have  not  seen  Madame 
Perez  for  several  weeks,  but  believe  that  she  is  still 
here.  Some  one,  I  forget  who,  told  me  that  she  is  very 
much  afraid  of  diphtheria,  and  hardly  leaves  her  house 
in  consequence  of  that  fear." 

The  day  following  the  receipt  of  this  letter,  Lady 
Yarrow  wrote  to  Madame  Perez,  sending  her  her  long- 
meditated,  never-accomplished,  words  of  pardon. 

"  DEAR  MRS.  WOODVIL — I  fear  that  I  was  very  rude 
to  you  the  day  your  husband  left  my  house,  but  I  was 
much  upset  for  several  reasons,  none  of  which,  I  am 
sure,  it  is  necessary  to  specify  to  you.  I  see  now  that 

280 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

you  meant  to  be  kind  in  what  you  said,  and  I  am  sorry 
I  could  not  see  this  at  the  time.  Will  you  kindly  let 
me  know  something  of  your  plans  for  the  future?  It 
is  better  to  tell  you  frankly  that  I  shall  make  mine  so 
as  to  avoid  seeing  you  again,  though  I  can  say,  with 
perfect  truth,  that  I  wish  you  well.  If  you  are  staying 
on  at  Liscom,  I  shall  go  abroad  for  the  present,  but  if 
you  are  leaving,  I  shall  come  home  early  in  April. 

"  Yours,  very  truly, 

"  MARY  YARROW." 

She  carried  this  letter  herself  to  the  post-office,  and 
coming  back  another  way,  passed  through  a  little,  long- 
neglected  park,  and  by  a  quaint  red-brick  house,  over 
grown  with  creepers,  the  blind  windows  of  which  looked 
to  her  as  sad  as  blind  eyes. 

In  this  house  had  lived  the  dearest  friend  she  had 
ever  had,  an  old  woman  who  had  died  shortly  after  her 
marriage. 

It  had  been  on  much  such  a  day,  six  years  before, 
that  she  had  rushed  up  the  path  to  the  house,  full  of 
remorse  and  sorrow,  to  undo  a  wrong  she  had  wantonly 
done  in  a  blind  rage  with  the  whole  world,  on  learning 
of  Jacques  Woodvil's  marriage. 

And  how  gentle  and  understanding  the  old  lady  had 
been,  and  how 

It  all  came  back  to  her  so  clearly  as  she  stood  on  the 
soft  grass  and  gazed  at  the  closed  windows.  Life  seemed 
to  her  a  very  sad  thing  as  she  went  slowly  homeward. 
Even  Yarrow,  who  had  been  to  her  an  angel,  had  had 
no  real  reward.  She  had  been  unable  to  forget  Wood- 

281 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

vil,  and  cruel  chance  had  brought  him  back  into  her 
life  only  to  leave  it  emptier  than  before.  Then,  for  she 
was  a  well-strung  nature,  with  sound  nerves,  she  forced 
her  thoughts  into  other  channels,  and  walked  rapidly 
home  to  her  baby. 

A  week  passed  before  a  letter  came  from  Madame 
Perez. 

"  DEAR  LADY  YARROW,"  it  said,  "  You  are  right  in 
thinking  that  I  would  have  helped  you  if  I  could.  It 
is  better  for  you  yourself  to  render  me  justice.  As  to 
my  plans,  I  go  away  the  first  of  April,  so  you  may 
come  home  then.  Before  I  say  good-by  to  you,  let  me 
add  one  word.  If  I  have  been  wicked,  as  it  seems  I 
have,  I  have  got  '  paid  out  '  now.  You  may  think 
yourself  unhappy,  and  you  may  be,  but  your  life  is 
Heaven  to  mine.  You  have  done  no  wrong;  you  are 
good,  and  the  man  you  love  respects  as  well  as  loves 
you.  You  can  be  at  peace  with  yourself.  I,  if  I  were 
not  a  coward,  would  kill  myself  to-day. 

"  ROSALBA  WOODVIL." 

Lady  Yarrow  could  make  little  of  these  words,  and 
after  a  futile  attempt  at  answering  them,  gave  it  up, 
and  put  the  memory  of  the  woman  away  from  her. 
Thus  for  her  February  passed  quickly;  uneventfully. 

And  March  came. 


282 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

PERHAPS  it  can  not  be  said  that  Rosalba  Woodvil's 
acute  pain  during  those  weeks  arose  from  an  awakened 
conscience.  Possibly  the  conscience  becomes  atrophied 
from  lack  of  use,  and  it  is  certain  that  she  herself  would 
have  jeered  at  the  thought  of  her  ever  having  had  such 
a  moral  vermiform  appendix.  However,  her  sufferings 
were  surely  out  of  all  proportion  to  any  realization  of 
wrong-doing  she  may  have  had  years  before  during  her 
life  with  Woodvil.  She  had  loved  her  cousin,  and 
though  she  of  course  knew  she  was  doing  wrong,  had 
never  had  any  innate  conviction  of  the  guilt  of  loving 
him. 

Hardy's  mental  attitude  towards  her  had  two  effects. 
It  had  made  her  vividly  ashamed  of  her  past,  and  it 
had  increased  her  love  for  him  to  an  almost  maddening 
extent. 

During  the  first  days  of  the  epidemic,  she  had 
stayed  at  home,  trembling  at  every  sound,  almost  faint 
ing  when  the  bell  rang.  He  was  going  to  die. 

Then,  as  time  went  on  and  he  did  not  take  the 
disease,  she  grew  calmer. 

She  herself  was  afraid  of  infection,  and  having  for 
bidden  all  her  servants  to  go  to  Carbury,  and  rarely 
leaving  her  own  grounds,  the  news  she  heard  was  slight 
and  rare. 

19  283 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

Then  came  Lady  Yarrow's  letter.  Over  and  over 
again  the  other  woman  read  it,  and  the  oftener  she  did 
so  the  stronger  grew  her  conviction  that  Mary  Yarrow 
was  a  very  good  woman,  and  that  she,  Rosalba,  would 
do  almost  anything  to  help  her.  It  was  not  her  fault 
that  Woodvil,  true  to  the  spirit  of  his  mother's  religion, 
refused  to  divorce  her.  She  had  begged  him  to  do  so,  and 
feeling  that  her  unselfishness  in  enduring  the  scandal 
of  a  divorce  for  the  good  of  another  woman  would 
raise  her  in  Hardy's  eyes,  she  wrote  her  husband  again 
and  again,  urging  him  to  come  back  to  England  and 
obtain  his  freedom. 

This  she  did  not  tell  Mary,  merely  writing  her  the 
few  words  that  puzzled  Lady  Yarrow,  and  accepting 
stolidly  the  unbroken  silence  that  followed  her  impul 
sive  note.  When  Anna  Hardy  died,  Rosalba  wrote  to 
town  for  flowers,  which  she  sent  with  her  card  to  Hardy, 
but  which  he  did  not  acknowledge. 

Then  followed  the  death  of  the  second  child. 

The  lonely  woman  in  the  great  house,  childless,  un 
imaginative,  selfish,  felt  in  her  love  for  the  man,  a  pain 
almost  as  keen  as  his  own.  "  Ugly  little  creatures," 
she  said  aloud,  with  a  shrug,  "  but  they  are  his." 

This  time  she  sent  no  flowers,  but  wrote  him  a  note, 
writing  as  any  warm  friend  might  do. 

This  effort,  too,  met  with  no  response. 

The  next  day  as  she  sat  in  the  red  room,  a  servant 
came  in.  "  Poor  Mrs.  Hardy  is  took,  too,  ma'am,"  the 
woman  said.  * '  The  butcher 's  boy  just  saw  the  Rector. ' ' 

Rosalba  rose,  "  Where?  Where  did  he  see  him]  " 
284 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

"  In  our  village,  ma'am.  He  was  at  the  apothe 
cary's.  Ibbetts  says  he  looks  just  terrible." 

Five  minutes  later  the  inhabitants  of  Borrowdaile 
were  surprised  by  the  sight  of  Madame  Perez  walking 
down  the  village  street  wrapped  in  a  dark  shawl  from 
head  to  foot.  She  walked  quickly,  seeing  no  one  until 
she  came  face  to  face  with  Hardy  at  a  turning. 

"  At  last,"  she  said,  joining  him  and  going  up  the 
steep  lane  through  which  he  was  making  a  short  cut 
homeward.  "  You  have  lost  your  poor  little  children," 
she  went  on,  before  he  could  speak.  "  You  know  I  am 
sorry.  And  now  she,  your  wife,  is  ill." 

"  Yes.     Aren't  you  afraid  of  infection?  " 

"  No.    I  am  afraid  of  nothing,  now." 

"  You  had  better  go  back.  It  is  rough  walking  here, 
and  you  will  get  wet  feet." 

She  laughed,  and  stopping,  caught  his  arm  and  held 
up  one  of  her  feet.  They  were  clad  in  little  fur-trimmed 
sapphire-velvet  slippers. 

"  You  are  crazy,"  he  said  roughly. 

"  I  ran  out  to  see  you — Re,"  she  retorted,  calling 
him  by  the  rolling  Spanish  equivalent  of  his  name. 
"  You  must  know  that  I  am  suffering  with  you.  I  am 
sorry  for  you. ' ' 

His  grim  face  softened.  "  I  believe  you.  Thanks. 
Now — I  must  hurry.  I  have  fetched  medicine." 

He  raised  his  hat  hurriedly,  showing  suddenly 
whitened  hair  and  a  brow  wrinkled  as  that  of  an  old 
man,  and  left  her.  Then  she  turned  and  went  back  to 
Liscom  House. 

285 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

Hardy  climbed  the  hill,  crossed  the  bridge,  and 
went  on  to  his  desolate  home.  The  meeting  with 
Rosalba  Woodvil  had  had  absolutely  no  significance  for 
him.  All  his  thoughts,  confused  and  dim,  were  centered 
in  the  room  upstairs  where  his  wife  lay,  her  poor  eyes 
fixed,  he  knew,  on  the  door  through  which  he  should 
come. 

The  nurse  met  him  and  took  the  medicine  without 
a  word,  and  together  they  went  upstairs. 

"  Master  seems  fair  dazed,"  Katie  told  the  baker's 
boy  the  next  morning  from  the  window.  "  It's  a  good 
thing  he  ain't  got  no  'ope,  though.  The  ups  and  downs 
is  too  awful." 

"  She's  going  to  die  then?  I  say,  Katie,  you're 
getting  plump." 

"  Plump,  indeed.  Get  out,  Billy  Haver.  This  is 
no  time  for  your  nonsense.  Yes,  the  nurse  says  it's  a 
bad  case." 

Katie  was  crying.  She  was  fond  of  her  mistress, 
she  was  full  of  pity  for  her  master  and  the  children, 
and  she  was  of  an  emotional  nature  and  thoroughly 
enjoyed  her  own  misery. 

Abby  Hardy  died  as  she  had  lived — patient,  pitiful. 
At  the  last  she  could  not  speak,  but  her  pale  eyes,  so 
expressionless  in  life,  grew  eloquent,  and  Hardy 
answered  nearly  all  of  her  unasked  questions.  Yes,  the 
children  were  all  well.  Baby  had  cut  a  tooth.  The 
Tenches  would  keep  them  until  the  house  was  safe — 
then,  sending  the  nurse  out  of  the  room,  he  went  on. 
"  Abby,  my  poor  girl,  I  have  made  you  unhappy.  I'm 

286 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

a  bad,  weak  fool,  and  you  have  been  good  to  me.  Yes, 
yes,  I  know,  you  love  me.  You  have  been  a  good  woman 
— you  must  ask  God  to  forgive  me 

Contrary  to  Tench's  entreaties  and  orders,  Hardy 
insisted  on  burying  his  wife  himself. 

He  met  the  coffin  at  the  churchyard  gate,  as  he  met 
all  the  dead  of  his  parish,  and  walked  by  it  to  the 
grave.  Tench,  Katie,  and  the  nurse,  were  almost  the 
only  onlookers,  for  all  the  gentry  in  the  neighborhood 
had  gone  away,  as  the  panic  grew  serious,  and  the  vil 
lagers  were  afraid  of  the  raw,  bleak  wind  that  blew. 

Hardy's  voice  was  firm,  and  he  read  the  beautiful 
service  most  poetically. 

As  he  came  to  the  words,  "  Thou  knowest,  Lord, 
the  secrets  of  our  hearts,"  he  glanced  up  from  his  book 
for  a  second,  and  his  eyes  fell  on  Rosalba  Woodvil,  who 
stood  a  little  to  one  side,  a  rosary  in  her  hands. 

Her  eyes  held  his  for  a  fraction  of  a  minute  and 
then  suddenly  a  flush  came  to  her  face,  and  her  eyes 
glowed  with  a  golden  light.  She  realized  that  he  was 
now  free. 

And  Hardy,  seeing  her  thought,  stumbled  in  his 
reading,  lost  his  place,  and  paused. 

The  little  group  around  the  grave  stared  open- 
mouthed,  and  the  doctor,  fearing  a  sudden  loss  of 
strength,  went  quickly  up  to  Hardy  as  if  to  help  him. 
The  Rector  did  not  notice  him. 

For  a  minute  he  stared  blankly  before  him,  and  then 
suddenly  raised  his  voice,  and  said  angrily :  ' '  Go.  You 
have  no  right  here.  Go!  " 

287 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

In  her  amazement  the  woman  obeyed,  and  before 
Tench  could  speak,  Hardy  had  taken  up  the  thread  of 
the  service  and  went  on  steadily  to  the  end. 

The  little  doctor,  disturbed  and  distressed,  fore 
seeing  the  scandal  the  scene  would  give  rise  to,  whis 
pered  as  he  left  the  churchyard  that  Hardy  had  a  high 
fever,  and  that  he,  Tench,  feared  he  was  on  the  point  of 
falling  ill. 

On  his  way  across  the  fields  to  Borrowdaile,  he  over 
took  Madame  Perez,  as  he  believed  her  to  be,  and  once 
more  advanced  his  theory  as  to  the  cause  of  Hardy's 
unheard-of  behavior. 

11  He  is  on  the  point  of  breaking  down,"  the  good 
little  man  went  on,  ' '  and  God  knows  he  has  had  enough 
to  make  him." 

"  Ah,  yes.     Very  much  trouble." 

The  beautiful  woman  spoke  absently,  but  Tench 
saw  that  she  was  not  at  all  offended  with  Hardy,  and 
he  went  his  way  thoughtful. 


288 


CHAPTER   XXXVII 

HARDY  went  home,  and  locking  himself  into  his 
study,  sat  down  and  tried  to  collect  his  thoughts,  which 
had  been  wavering  and  wandering  for  days.  It  had 
not  occurred  to  him  that  he  might  be  going  mad ;  indeed 
that  thought  rarely  comes  to  those  whose  minds  are 
really  on  the  point  of  slipping  from  the  hinges. 

On  the  contrary,  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  at 
last  punished  enough,  that  God's  just  wrath  must  be 
appeased,  and  that  he  would  probably  die. 

It  would  be  asking  too  much  to  demand  living  from 
a  man  in  his  condition.  He  could  not  live,  so  he  must 
be  going  to  die. 

Languidly  he  looked  around  the  little  room;  at  the 
photographs,  recently  taken,  on  the  chimney-piece;  at 
the  new  curtains  at  the  windows;  at  the  crystal  ink 
stand  the  children  had  given  him  for  Christmas. 

A  curious  smell  of  burning  was  in  the  air;  it  was 
the  nurse  disinfecting  the  house;  he  had  noticed  on 
coming  up  the  path  that  all  the  upper  windows  were 
wide  opened  to  the  purifying  wind. 

The  rest  of  the  children  would  soon  be  coming  home. 
He  wondered  vaguely  how  many  there  were  left.  They 
would  come  home — or  no.  First,  he  must  die,  and  be 
put  out  of  the  way.  He  wondered  whether  Madame 

289 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

Perez  would  come  to  mock  at  his  funeral  too.  Who 
would  read  the  service  over  him  ? 

Probably  Dr.  Dudley,  who  was  expected  home  in  a 
few  days.  His  sister  had  died.  Everybody  died. 

After  a  time  Katie  knocked  at  his  door  to  ask  if  he 
would  have  tea. 

He  told  her  that  he  did  not  wish  to  be  disturbed; 
that  he  was  going  to  lie  down. 

Evening  drew  on,  and  night  shut  down  softly  over 
the  world.  The  grayness  of  the  sea  seemed  to  steal  up 
to  meet  the  blackness  of  the  sky,  and  all  was  still.  In  a 
tree  outside  one  of  his  windows,  a  bird's  nest  hung, 
and  as  the  darkness  grew,  a  star  seemed  to  rest  on  it 
like  a  bird.  Hardy  wondered  whether,  if  he  climbed 
the  tree,  he  could  catch  the  star,  or  whether  it  would 
fly  away. 

At  last,  he  fell  asleep,  and  slept  for  hours.  When 
he  awoke  he  was  stiff  and  lame  all  over.  Sitting  up, 
he  swallowed  once  or  twice.  Yes,  his  throat  was  sore. 
It  was  all  right.  He  lit  the  lamp,  drew  down  the  cur 
tains,  and  made  a  fire.  It  was  very  chill  and  cold. 
Some  one  moved  overhead.  Abby  looking  after  one  of 
the  children.  No,  Abby  was  dead. 

He  looked  at  the  clock  and  saw  that  it  was  nearly 
ten  o'clock. 

Katie  knocked  again,  and  when  he  sent  her  away, 
she  went  to  bed  with  a  satisfied  feeling  that  his  grief 
was  all  that  it  ought  to  be.  She  would  tell  every  one 
that  he  did  not  eat  a  bite  all  the  day  of  the  funeral. 

Hardy  cowered  over  the  fire,  drawing  a  vague  com- 
290 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

fort  from  the  warmth,  and  then,  suddenly,  rose  and 
opened  a  window.  If  he  kept  himself  warm,  he  might 
get  well. 

It  was  cold  and  still  outside ;  a  sea- fog  had  crept  in 
landward,  and  hung  pall-like  on  the  trees.  Some  of  the 
children  were  playing  in  the  garden;  he  heard  Mac- 
Dougall's  grating  little  voice.  It  was  a  pity  the  child 
had  such  a  disagreeable  voice.  No,  MacDougall  was 
dead. 

The  pain  in  his  throat  was  worse,  and  his  head  swam 
so  that  he  held  to  the  window-frame  for  support. 

Suddenly  Madame  Perez  stood  by  him,  wrapped  in 
the  long  shawl  that  made  such  beautiful  folds  on  her 
tall  figure. 

"  I — I  couldn't  stay  away,"  she  stammered.  "  I 
had  to  see  you." 

Hardy  looked  at  her  stupidly.  "  What  do  you 
want?  "  he  asked. 

"  Let  me  come  in,  it  is  cold.  What  do  I  want? 
Listen."  She  pushed  by  him,  closed  the  window,  and 
drew  him  to  the  fire. 

' '  Lady  Yarrow  comes  back  the  day  after  to-morrow, 
and  I  must  go  to-morrow;  I  promised  her." 

Hardy  put  his  hand  to  his  head.  "  You  promised 
her — I  don 't  understand. ' ' 

"  Because  she  will  not  see  me  again.  I  am  Jacques 
Woodvil's  wife — you  see?  " 

With  a  little  exclamation  in  Spanish  over  his  dul- 
ness,  she  hurried  on:  "  She  loves  Jacques  and  he,  her. 
Mon  Dieu!  And  they  can't  marry  because  of  me." 

291 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

Hardy  put  out  his  hand  and  touched  her  arm  hesi 
tatingly. 

"  You  ought  to  die,  too,  you  know,"  he  said,  with  a 
grave  conviction  in  his  husky  voice. 

She  laughed.  "  Ah,  die!  No,  I  am  going  to  live. 
You  and  I  are  going  to  live,  King.  And  they  shall 
marry — the  two  saints." 

"  He  can  not  marry  until  you  die,"  he  repeated, 
vaguely. 

"  He  can.  You  and  I  go  away  together,  alma  di 
mi  alma,  you  and  I,  now,  to-night.  Then  he  must 
divorce  me.  It  would  be  too  much." 

"  Too  much.    Ah,  yes." 

"  And  you  and  I;  what  do  we  care,  '  Hubert  Brans- 
combe  '  ?  Ah,  I  know  that  you  love  me.  And  I  love 
you,  and  we  will  live,  you  and  I !  ' ! 

Breaking  into  a  torrent  of  Spanish  she  knelt  by  the 
chair  into  which  he  had  sunk  and  caught  him  in  her 
arms.  ' '  And  it  is  a  good  deed !  It  makes  room  for  her, 
for  Mary  Yarrow.  Even  the  Church  will  forgive  us. 
The  Church  understands.  Ah,  mi  Ee,  mi  Re!  " 

Hardy  pushed  her  away  and  rose.  He  understood 
now,  and  remembered  everything. 

"  Go,"  he  said  sternly,  "  you  are  a  wicked  woman, 
and  I  hate  you.  I  have  been  punished,  I  am  going  to 
die,  and  you  would  ruin  me  again.  Go !  " 

"  King!  "  she  stammered,  cowering  with  uplifted 
hands,  "  you  are  mad!  " 

"  I  am  not  mad,  thank  God.  I  have  been  mad,  I 
am  ill  and  I  did  not  understand.  Now  I  am  sane 

292 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

again.  Listen.  I  do  not  love  you.  I  never  did.  God 
has  not  let  me  love  any  woman.  Twice  I  have  thought 
that  I  did — another  man's  wife,  long  ago,  and  my  own 
wife,  later.  Neither  was  real  love.  Real  love  is  a  mix 
ture  of  many  things,  no  one  of  which  alone  can  be  called 
by  the  name.  Earth  and  dew  and  light  and  life  make 
a  rose,  but  no  one  of  them  alone  is  a  rose.  You  are  a 
beautiful  woman,  but  I  never  loved  you.  And  you — 
you  do  not  love  me.  You,  too,  cannot  love.  Now  I  see, 
now  I  know." 

"  You  are  a  fool,"  she  cried  harshly,  "  a  poor 
fool!  " 

11  Yes.  I  am  a  poor  fool.  But  I  have  repented  of 
my  sin  and  I  have  been  punished,  and  now — God  is 
going  to  forgive  me." 

He  raised  his  haggard  face  to  the  sky,  in  which 
many  stars  shone.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  the 
certainty  of  mercy  had  come  to  him.  After  a  long 
pause,  he  added  gently,  "  You  must  go  now.  This 
house  is  dangerous." 

"  I  am  not  afraid." 

The  clock  struck  midnight. 

'*  And — if  any  one  should  see  you " 

"Ah,  bah!  What  do  I  care?  Tell  me  that  again. 
That  you  do  not  love  me." 

'  Yes.    I  do  not  love  you." 

"  And  you  never  did?  " 

"No.    I  never  did." 

' '  But  I !  You  lie  when  you  say  I  do  not  love  you. 
I  do!  I  love  you,  and  only  you.  I  would  die  for  one 
kind  word  from  you." 

293 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

He  started.  "  I  do  not  mean  to  be  unkind,  and — I 
forgot.  I  have  the  diphtheria.  It  is  coming  on  me. 
You  must  go." 

For  a  minute  she  stared  at  him,  and  then,  with  one 
movement,  flung  off  her  shawl,  and  springing  at  him 
caught  him  about  the  neck  and  kissed  him  repeatedly 
on  the  mouth.  ' '  Ah,  then  I,  too,  will  have  it.  I,  too ! 
Give  it  to  me,"  she  gasped.  "  I,  too,  will  die." 

Weak  and  ill,  he  could  not  contend  with  her  spas 
modic,  frantic  strength,  and  when  she  at  last  released 
him,  fell  heavily  into  a  chair. 

Then,  suddenly,  the  terror  of  death  caught  her,  and 
with  a  cry  she  rushed  out  into  the  night,  uttering  short, 
sharp  ejaculations  of  fear. 


294 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

A  MONTH  later  Mary  Yarrow,  Mr.  Dudley,  and 
Tench  sat  together  in  the  library  of  Borrowdaile  House. 

Lady  Yarrow  was  very  pale,  and  her  hands  shook  as 
she  made  the  tea  and  poured  it  into  the  graceful  cups. 

Mr.  Dudley  watched  her  some  time  in  silence,  and 
when  she  had  given  him  bread  and  butter  and  settled 
back  in  her  chair,  he  began  abruptly:  "  Suppose  you 
tell  us  all  about  it,  Tench.  One  hears  all  sorts  of  tales, 
and  it  is  better  that  Lady  Yarrow  should  know  the  truth 
from  you  yourself,  though  I  wrote  her " 

Tench  nodded.    "Yes." 

The  firelight  played  fantastically  on  the  beautiful 
old  paneling  of  the  walls  and  ceiling,  and  made  quaint 
shadows  behind  the  old-fashioned  dimity-covered  chairs. 

As  Tench  told  his  story,  Mary  Yarrow,  who  had  but 
just  come  home,  looked  absently  about  the  room,  her  sou 
venirs  of  the  last  meeting  with  one  of  the  people  con 
cerned  in  the  tale  mingling  with  the  present.  Then,  her 
baby  had  been  but  a  few  weeks  old ;  now,  he  was  a  big 
ruddy  fellow  of  eight  months — a  personality,  and  a  com 
panion. 

Then  it  had  been  autumn,  with  sad  rain  on  the 
windows  and  dying  leaves  fluttering  through  the  heavy 
air;  now  mid-May  had  come,  there  were  flowers  in  the 

295 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

garden,  and  the  plowed-up  earth  about  the  village  was 
rich  with  green. 

Tench  had  folded  his  hands,  the  ill-shaped  little  hands 
that  had  done  so  many  kind  things,  and  was  speaking. 

"  I  was  just  going  to  bed,  as  I  said,"  he  went  on, 
"  when  I  heard  the  gate  click,  and,  instead  of  going 
upstairs,  opened  the  door.  There  she  stood  in  a  white 
gown,  limp  with  the  fog,  as  even  an  angel's  garments 
must  have  been  in  such  a  one.  I  asked  her  to  come  in, 
and  she  fell  on  her  knees,  begging  me  to  save  her  life. 
Naturally,  I  thought  she  had  gone  mad,  but  I  could 
see  that  she  was  in  for  at  least  a  bad  cold,  and  calling 
my  sister,  I  got  a  dressing-gown  warmed  and  put  on 
her,  and  then  she  sat  with  a  pair  of  my  slippers  on. 
She  wouldn  't  say  a  word  before  Maria,  but  when  we  were 
alone  again,  she  began  at  once  begging  me  to  save  her 
life.  '  I'll  have  diphtheria  and  die,'  she  wailed,  clasping 
her  throat.  Cowardice  is  a  disgusting  sight  to  a  doctor ; 
we  see  a  good  deal  of  it,  too." 

"  But  also  much  beautiful  patience,  Tench,"  inter 
rupted  the  Rector. 

"  Oh,  yes,  patience,  of  course.  Well,  little  by  little 
I  got  it  out  of  her  that  she  had  been — of  all  places  in 
the  world — at  poor  Hardy's.  She  talked  very  wildly — " 
the  little  man  broke  off  in  some  embarrassment  and 
glanced  uneasily  at  Lady  Yarrow. 

"  She — she  was  certain  she  had  caught  the  disease 
from  him,  and  of  course  I  couldn't  say  definitely  that 
she  hadn't.  It  was  too  soon.  I  was  sorry  for  her,  for 
her  nerves  were  in  a  bad  state,  but  such  a  total  lack  of 

296 


HE    AND   HECUBA 

reserve  is  very  embarrassing.  And  when  she  repeated 
that  Hardy  was  ill,  I,  of  course,  bundled  her  off  as 
quickly  as  I  could,  and  went  up  to  look  after  Hardy." 

The  speaker  broke  off  again. 

"  I  gathered,  in  two  words,  from  what  she  said,  that 
she  was  Mr.  Woodvil's  wife,  and  that  she,  well — that 
she,  in  short,  was  in  love  with  Hardy. ' ' 

The  Rector  stroked  his  thin  knees  pitifully,  as  if  they 
had  been  Hardy's.  "  Poor  fellow,  poor  fellow,"  he  said 
softly. 

"  I  found  Hardy  very  ill,  with  a  high  fever  and  a 
terrible  throat.  Of  course  I  couldn't  ask  him  any  ques 
tions,  and  I  saw  that  he  imagined  the  visit  of  Madame — 
Mrs. — h'm! — of  the  lady  in  question,  to  have  been  a 
dream.  It  was  just  as  well,  and  I  never  corrected  the 
impression.  He  died  of  heart-failure,  as  you  know, 
which  was  a  very  merciful  death." 

There  was  a  short  pause,  after  which  Mary  asked, 
without  looking  up,  "  And  she?  " 

"  She  sickened  the  third  day  and  sent  for  me. 
When  I  told  her  what  it  was,  she  telegraphed  Sir  John 
and  Dr.  Prothero,  as  I've  told  you." 

The  Rector  cleared  his  throat.     "  Poor  woman." 

"  Yes.  Father  Bingham  came  and  I  believe  she  took 
the  Communion.  The  room  smelt  of  burnt  wax  when  I 
came  that  morning.  She  was  unconscious  most  of  the 
time,  and — and — talked  a  good  deal — raved,  you  know. 
She  was  afraid  to  die,  a  thing  that  happens  more  seldom 
than  one  might  think,  my  lady." 

Mary  nodded.     "  Yes." 
297 


HE   AND   HECUBA 

"  But  she  insisted  on  knowing  about  her  condition, 
and  at  length  I  had  to  tell  her  that  there  was  no  hope. 
She  thanked  me,  though  she  could  hardly  speak,  and 
turned  away.  An  hour  later  they  called  me — and  it  was 
all  over.  Where  she  got  the  pistol,  God  only  knows." 

The  Rector  leaned  over  and  poked  the  fire  gently. 

"  She  was  afraid  to  await  God's  time,  poor  soul. 
May  He  be  merciful  to  her." 

Tench  rose.  His  task  was  done,  and  its  accomplish 
ment  had  been  made  easy  for  him. 

"  My  sister  sends  her  respects,  Lady  Yarrow,"  he 
said,  as  she  gave  him  her  hand,  "  and  she  will  come  to 
morrow,  as  you  wrote,  to  talk  over  the  children.  We 
are  fond  of  them,  and — are  glad  that  your  great  good 
ness  enables  us  to  keep  them." 

' '  It  would  be  a  pity  to  break  up  what  remains  of  the 
family, ' '  she  said.  ' '  I  am  glad  I  can  help. ' ' 

When  the  doctor  had  gone,  Lady  Yarrow  caught  up 
a  shawl  that  lay  on  a  chair,  and  taking  the  Rector's  arm, 
said :  ' '  Now  we  will  go,  uncle  dearest.  People  who  have 
dear  dead  surely  can  not  doubt  the  immortality  of  the 
soul.  Imagine  Yarrow  being  nothing  now!  " 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  you  are  right.  I  have  felt  all  day 
as  though  he  were  with  us.  Mind  you,  don't  tell  Re 
becca  that, ' '  he  added  with  a  little  laugh.  They  crossed 
the  spongy  lawn  and  the  shadowy  park,  to  the  road, 
and  after  a  few  minutes  reached  the  churchyard. 

Lord  Yarrow  had  had  a  horror  of  stone  vaults  and 
lay  under  the  grass  just  by  the  entrance  to  the  family 
burial-place. 

298 


HE   AND    HECUBA 

Lady  Yarrow  carried  a  basket,  and  when  they  had 
reached  the  grave,  knelt  by  it  and  set  down  her  light 
burden. 

The  Rector,  taking  a  trowel  from  his  coat-tail  pocket, 
and  giving  it  to  her,  they  set  to  work  to  plant  about  the 
mound  a  row  of  crocuses. 

It  was  growing  dark,  but  they  worked  quickly,  and 
when  they  rose,  the  basket  empty,  the  soft-voiced  old 
church  clock  boomed  six  into  the  evening  air. 

Mary  Yarrow  paused.  "  He  would  be  glad,  Uncle 
Charles,"  she  said. 

"  Is  glad,  my  dear,  is  glad."  And  they  went  their 
way,  believing  it. 

At  the  house-door  they  separated. 

"  Thank  you,  dear  old  man,  you  have  helped  me  in 
sorrow  and  in  joy.  Give  my  love  to — Aunt  Rebecca." 

He  laughed  half-sadly,  as  old  people  do  at  the  joy  of 
the  young,  for  he  knew  what  a  world  of  happiness  lay 
beneath  the  simple  words,  and  baring  his  head  to  her, 
trotted  off  down  the  avenue,  the  newly  risen  moon  car 
icaturing  his  bent  back  and  bowed  legs  in  his  bouncing 
shadow. 

Mary  Yarrow  watched  him  out  of  sight,  and  then 
turned  to  go  in.  Dinner  was  at  eight.  As  she  went  up 
the  steps  to  the  door,  a  long,  piercing  shriek,  mellowed 
by  distance  and  dampness,  reached  her  ears.  A  soft 
blush  crept  up  to  her  brow. 

It  was  the  train. 

THE   END 

20  299 


MAARTEN  MAARTENS'S  LATEST  BOOK. 

JUST  PUBLISHED. 
Dorothea.     A  Story  of  the  Pure  in  Heart. 

i2mo.     Cloth,  $1.50. 

"  The  book  is  not  one  to  be  read  hastily  or  superficially.  There  are 
a  great  number  of  characters,  and  they  are  all  living,  breathing,  thinking 
men  and  women,  stimulating  in  their  contrast  to  the  sawdust  puppets 
of  so  much  of  our  contemporary  fiction.  Mr.  Maartens  writes  from  the 
viewpoint  at  once  of  humorist,  philosopher,  and  man  of  the  world.  He 
does  not  pelt  us  with  laboriously  prepared  epigrams,  but  a  quietly  whole 
some  humor  sparkles  in  all  his  dialogue.  His,  in  short,  is  a  story  to 
enjoy  in  leisurely  fashion  and  be  grateful  for." — New  York  Sun. 

"  The  movement  is  swift  and  sure,  the  wit  keen,  the  worldly  wisdom 
ripe  and  rich.  In  a  word,  it  is  the  work  of  a  master,  done  to  its  smallest 
detail  in  masterly  fashion." — New  York  Times. 

"  Put  before  us  with  such  truth  and  such  fine  feeling  that  it  awakens 
ideas,  touches  the  imagination,  and  altogether  gives  us  something  to  add 
to  our  conception  of  life." — New  York  Tribune. 

"  It  is  full  of  humor  and  charm,  touched  with  a  strong  dramatic  in 
stinct  and  replete  with  life.  '  Dorothea '  is  a  book  to  be  read  ;  those 
who  neglect  to  do  so  will  miss  much  enjoyment.  Life  seen  through  the 
glasses  of  Mr.  Maartens  is  an  absorbingly  interesting  and  delightful 
thing." — The  Academy  and  Literature,  London. 


OTHER  BOOKS  BY  MAARTEN  MAARTENS. 

Each,  I2mo,  cloth,  $1.50.     In  Uniform  Binding. 

Some  Women  I  Have  Known.     With  Frontispiece. 

"  These  stories  indicate  character,  relations,  environments,  the  devel 
opment  of  incidents  with  the  lightness  and  grace  of  a  true  artist." 

Her  Memory.     With  Photogravure  Portrait. 
The  Greater  Glory.    A  story  of  High  Life. 
God's  Fool. 
Joost  Avelingh. 

D.    APPLETON     AND     COMPANY,     NEW     YORK. 


"A  beautiful  romance  of  the  days  of  Robert  Burns," 

Nancy  Stair. 

A  Novel.  By  ELINOR  MACARTNEY  LANE,  author 
of  "Mills  of  God."  Illustrated.  i2mo.  Cloth,  $1.50. 

"  With  very  much  the  grace  and  charm  of  Robert  Louis 
Stevenson,  the  author  of  '  The  Life  of  Nancy  Stair '  com 
bines  unusual  gifts  of  narrative,  characterization,  color,  and 
humor.  She  has  also  delicacy,  dramatic  quality,  and  that 
rare  gift — historic  imagination. 

"  '  The  Life  of  Nancy  Stair '  is  interesting  from  the  first 
sentence  to  the  last ;  the  characters  are  vital  and  are,  also, 
most  entertaining  company;  the  denouement  unexpected 
and  picturesque  and  cleverly  led  up  to  from  one  of  the 
earliest  chapters;  the  story  moves  swiftly  and  without  a 
hitch.  Robert  Burns  is  neither  idealized  nor  caricatured  ; 
Sandy,  Jock,  Pitcairn,  Danvers  Carmichael,  and  the  Duke 
of  Borthewicke  are  admirably  relieved  against  each  other, 
and  Nancy  herself  as  irresistible  as  she  is  natural.  To  be 
sure,  she  is  a  wonderful  child,  but  then  she  manages  to 
make  you  believe  she  was  a  real  one.  Indeed,  reality  and 
naturalness  are  two  of  the  charms  of  a  story  that  both 
reaches  the  heart  and  engages  the  mind,  and  which  can 
scarcely  fail  to  make  for  itself  a  large  audience.  A  great 
deal  of  delightful  talk  and  interesting  incidents  are  used  for 
the  development  of  the  story.  Whoever  reads  it  will  advise 
everybody  he  knows  to  read  it ;  and  those  who  do  not  care 
for  its  literary  quality  cannot  escape  the  interest  of  a  love- 
story  full  of  incident  and  atmosphere." 

"  Powerfully  and  attractively  written." — Pittsburg  Post, 

"  A  story  best  described  with  the  word  '  charming."  " 

—  Washington  Post. 

D.     APPLETON     AND     COMPANY,     NEW     YORK. 


44  The  remarkable  work  of  a  practised  mind  and  pen." 

-The  World,  Ne<w  York. 

I:  In  Which  a  Woman  Tells  the  Truth 
about  Herself. 

A  Novel  by  an  Anonymous  Author.    1 2mo.    Cloth,  $i  .50. 

"  An  exceedingly  well-constructed  story." 

—  The  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle, 

"  The  woman  who  is  supposed  to  lay  bare  her  heart  is  one  to  win 
sympathy,  whether  she  be  real  or  imaginary,  and  in  her  writing  she  shows 
a  literary  skill  that  is  to  be  commended." — St.  Louis  Globe-Democrat. 

"  As  foils  to  the  character  of  '  I,'  the  author  draws  several  others, 
which  are  equally  true  and  powerful,  and  the  book  as  a  whole  is,  and 
ought  to  be,  recognized  as  one  of  the  notable  works  of  fiction  of  the  year." 

—  The  Philadelphia  Ledger. 

"  The  story  is  told  with  skill  and  delicacy,  albeit  frankly.  It  is  a 
suggestive  statement  of  a  perfectly  possible  case  and  discloses  rare  powers 
of  self-analysis." — The  Washington  Star. 

"  It  has  not  had  the  advantage  of  preliminary  publication  in  a  mag 
azine,  but  it  will  probably  make  its  way  without  such  aid.  It  is  cleverly 
constructed,  the  story  progresses  steadily,  and  the  semblance  of  revealed 
truth  is  strong  enough  to  carry  conviction  certainly  strong  enough  to 
evoke  the  best  of  all  advertising — discussion  at  the  dinner  table.  The 
author  has  hidden  her  identity  so  well  that  even  her  publishers  do  not 
know  her  name.  One  thing  may  be  concluded  from  internal  evidence, 
however :  the  author  of '  I '  is  a  woman.  The  development  of  character  and 
plot  along  emotional  lines  is  too  distinctively  feminine  to  allow  of  much 
room  for  doubt.  The  love  of  beauty,  of  luxury,  the  refuge  in  the  strength 
of  others  when  misfortune  strikes  its  blow,  the  semi-maternal  devotion 
to  the  ailing  husband  whom  '  I '  no  longer  loves,  knowing  him  weak 
and  incapable,  a  slender  reed  to  lean  upon  ;  the  longing  for  atonement, 
the  long  struggle  with  a  deep  love,  and  the  final  utter  surrender — all  this 
must  have  come  from  a  woman's  mind.  There  is,  moreover,  and  this  is 
one  of  the  great  merits  of  the  story,  no  'gush,'  no  approach  to  hysteria." 

—  The  Evening  Mail,  New  York. 

D.    APPLETON     AND     COMPANY,     NEW     YORK. 


COWBOYS   AND   OKLAHOMA. 

"One  of   the  cleverest   bits   of   ranch   romance   that   has  found   its 
inspiration  in  the  Southwest." — The  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle. 


Butternut  Jones. 

A  Novel.  By  TILDEN  TILFORD.  With  Frontis 
piece.  I2mo.  Cloth,  $1.50. 

"  Mr.  Tilford's  story  is  a  book  of  the  humor  and  adventure  of 
the  plains,  rather  than  a  novel.  The  joy  of  living,  the  exuberance 
of  youth  and  health,  predominate  in  these  pages,  whose  humor  is 
notably  fresh  and  spontaneous.  Mr.  Tilford's  galloping  account  of 
the  wild  rush  for  homesteads  in  Oklahoma  territory  is  decidedly  a 
strong  bit  of  writing." — The  Mail  and  Express,  New  York. 

"It  is  certainly  a  relief — a  pleasant  relief — after  reading  '  society ' 
tales,  having  a  flavor  of  boiled  shirts,  decollete  gowns,  late  suppers, 
intrigue,  and  scandal,  to  get  hold  of  a  refreshing,  wholesome,  and 
natural  story  as  is  '  Butternut  Jones.'  " — The  News,  Providence. 

"  If  you  don't  know  too  many  other  literary  beings  of  his 
description  you  may  enjoy  making  the  acquaintance  of  '  Butternut.' 
The  best  of  the  book  is  the  picture  of  the  rush  of  '  sooners  '  at  the 
opening  of  Oklahoma." — The  St.  Louis  Republic. 

"  Western  novels  by  Western  writers  have  been  few  and  not 
altogether  satisfying,  but  '  Butternut  Jones '  comes  near  being  the 
real  thing  in  point  of  literary  value.  The  author's  descriptive  work 
is  vivid,  and  he  shows  a  fine  sense  of  humor  and  appreciation  of 
the  dramatic.  The  description  of  the  ride  of  the  boomers  at  the 
land  opening  in  Oklahoma  in  1893  is  the  best  thing  ever  done  in 
this  line." — The  New  York  Press. 

"Fresh  as  the  clear  airs  of  the  great  grazing  region  of  the 
Southwest,  vigorous  as  the  denizens  of  that  strenuous  corner  of  the 
world,  this  story  of  ranch  life  is  calculated  to  arouse  the  jaded 
interest  of  the  novel  reader." — The  Washington  Star. 

"  A  young  writer  who  has  heretofore  confined  himself  to 
magazine  stories  has  written  a  story  that  will  do  much  toward 
winning  fame  for  him.  He  shows  an  excellent  understanding  of 
the  Western  types,  and  has  written  a  story  that  is  replete  with 
humor,  character  drawing,  and  adventure.  It  is  high-class  fiction." 

—  The  St.  Louis  Globe-Democrat. 

D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY,  NEW  YORK. 


By  FRANK   R  STOCKTON. 
The   Captain's  Toil-Gate. 

A  Complete  Posthumous  Novel  by  FRANK  R.  STOCK 
TON,  Author  of  "Kate  Bonnet,"  'The  Lady  or  the 
Tiger,"  etc.  With  a  Memoir  by  Mrs.  Stockton,  an  Etched 
Portrait,  Views  of  Mr.  Stockton's  Home,  and  a  Bibli 
ography.  i2mo.  Cloth,  $1.50. 

The  scene  is  partly  laid  in  Washington  but  mainly  in 
that  part  of  West  Virginia  where  the  author  spent  the 
last  three  years  of  his  life.  Incidents  centering  about 
the  "  Toll-Gate  "  and  a  fashionable  country  home  in  the 
neighborhood  are  related  with  the  author's  peculiar 
humor  and  charm  of  diction  which  have  endeared  him 
to  a  host  of  readers. 

The  heroine  who  is  an  embodiment  of  the  healthy 
vigorous  girl  of  to-day,  and  her  several  suitors,  together 
with  the  mistress  of  the  country  house  and  a  meddlesome 
unmarried  woman  of  the  village,  combine  to  present  a 
fascinating  and  varied  picture  of  social  life  to  the  present 
day. 

"  In  the  story  we  have  the  real  Stockton  at  his  best  and  brightest. 
The  fun,  the  whimsicality,  the  queer  doings,  the  very  delightful  people 
are  such  as  his  readers  have  been  entertained  with  for  so  many  years. 
The  fertility  of  invention  and  '"ngenuity  is  as  fresh  as  in  the  early 
storijs,  and  perhaps  Mr.  Stockton  never  came  nearer  to  success  in 
trying  to  keep  a  long  story  together  to  the  end  without  digressions  or 
a  break  in  the  plot.  The  heroine  is  a  charming  girl,  her  married 
hostess  still  more  charming,  and  there  are  plenty  of  others  the  reader 
will  be  glad  to  meet. 

"  Mrs.  Stockton's  sketch  of  her  husband  gives  us  a  glimpse  of  a 
lovable  and  delightful  personality  and  shows  the  author  at  work  just 
as  the  readers  must  have  imagined  him.  Swinging  in  a  hammock 
under  the  fir  trees,  or  when  winter  came,  in  an  easy  chair  before  a  big 
log  fire,  he  dreamed  his  fancies  and  dictated  them,  bit  by  bit,  as  they 
came,  to  his  secretary." — New  York  Sun. 

D.     APPLETON     AND     COMPANY,    NEW     YORK. 


A  NOVEL  OF  REAL  IMPORTANCE. 

The  Law  of  Life. 

By  ANNA  MC€LURE  SHOLL.     i2mo.     Cloth,  $1.50. 

This  remarkable  novel  presents  an  entirely  new  and  a  very  enter, 
taining  feature  of  American  national  and  social  development.  Miss 
Sholl  has  sought  her  inspiration  in  the  life  and  interests  of  a  large 
University,  as  that  life  is  felt  and  known  from  the  faculty  and  post 
graduate  standpoints.  The  author  has  brought  to  this  fascinating  and 
unfamiliar  subject  a  close  personal  knowledge  and  an  enthusiastic 
appreciation  of  its  possibilities  for  literary  purposes. 

"  The  book  is  exceptionally  interesting.  ...  A  genuine  touch 
of  dramatic  power." — Harry  Thurston  Peck. 

"  An  impassioned  romance,  told  with  admirable  balance ;  absorb- 
ingly  interesting  and  one  of  the  most  vital  novels  of  the  day." — Lillian 
Whiting  in  the  Chicago  Inter-Ocean. 

"  The  writer  unfolds  an  every-day  tragedy  with  that  touch  of  inevi- 
tableness  that  we  usually  associate  with  the  work  of  the  masters." — New 
York  Evening  Telegram. 

"  A  remarkable  story  in  many  respects  ;  it  makes  one  think,  as  well 
as  sympathize,  and  gives  pleasure  as  a  tale  as  well  as  stimulates  as  a 
problem." — Chicago  Record-Herald. 

"  The  book  has  not  only  a  literary  grace  and  distinction,  but  a 
sympathetic  understanding  of  conditions,  a  sense  of  their  artistic  values; 
and  a  strong  feeling  for  that  law  of  life  from  which  the  book  takes  its 
title." — Louisville  Evening  Post. 

"  Miss  Sholl  has  handled  her  subject  with  admirable  sureness 
of  touch,  with  dignity  and  proper  restraint.  Her  lovers  are  be 
ings  of  flesh  and  blood,  not  puppets ;  she  faces  the  problem  fully, 
fearlessly ;  hence  the  compelling  strength  of  the  story,  its  excep 
tional  merit  as  the  product  of  an  American  pen."  —  New  York 
Mail  and  Express. 

D        APPLETON       AND      COMPANY.      NEW      YORK. 


By  MAX  PEMBERTON. 


A  Hew  Book  by  this  Author. 

Doctor  Xavier. 

Illustrated.     12 mo.     Cloth,  $1.50. 

For  those  who  like  a  story  of  mystery  that  increases 
from  first  chapter  to  the  end  there  is  here  a  book  that 
will  be  welcomed.  The  factor  that  makes  the  perpetual 
charm  of  "  The  Arabian  Nights "  is  employed  by  Mr. 
Pemberton.  The  author  has  written  a  book  of  constantly 
increasing  interest. 

In  the  character  of  Doctor  Xavier,  the  scientist  all 
but  magician  is  skilfully  depicted,  while  the  subordinate 
personages  lend  an  added  air  of  mystery  to  a  cleverly 
written  tale.  The  fact  that  the  scenes  are  laid  among 
cities  of  the  present  day,  and  men  and  women  of  out 
wardly  conventional  propriety,  only  adds  to  the  sense  of 
magic  underlying  the  story. 


Other  Books  by  Mr.  Pemberton. 
Each  Illustrated.     12010.     Cloth,  $1.50. 
The  House  Under  the  Sea. 
Footsteps  of  a  Throne. 
The  Phantom  Army. 
Kronstadt. 

D.     APPLETON     AND     COMPANY,    NEW    YORK 


"A  thoroughly  readable  tale  with  a  heroine  who  is 
alive  and  lovable  and  very  feminine." 

— 'The  Evening  Post,  Ne*w  York. 

The  Vineyard. 

A    Novel.      By    JOHN    OLIVER    HOBBES 
(Mrs.  Craigie).     Illustrated.     i2mo.    Cloth,  $1.50. 

The  announcement  of  another  story  by  Mrs. 
Craigie  will  be  welcomed  by  all  of  her  many 
readers  in  this  country.  Her  position  already  is 
an  assured  one,  and  the  talents  that  have  made  her 
successful  heretofore  may  be  relied  upon  to  achieve 
for  her  renewed  success  and  for  her  readers  re 
newed  enjoyment. 

"A  novel  which  exercises  an  undeniable  fascination  on 
the  reader." — The  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle. 

"There  is  a  masculine  touch  about  the  telling  of  this 
story  which  gives  it  strength.  The  book  is  the  work  of  one 
who  knows  how  to  write." — The  Bookman. 

"  Mrs.  Craigie  knows  how  to  tell  a  story.  She  has  lost 
nothing  of  her  power  to  appeal  to  us  on  the  grounds  of 
feeling  for  the  weakness,  the  poor  humanity,  always  to  be 
encountered  in  everyday  life.  Mrs.  Craigie  entertains  us 
with  all  the  skill  of  a  writer  who  possesses  not  only  the 
narrative  gift,  but  the  peculiar  source  in  dialogue." 

—  The  Tribune,  New  York. 

D.    APPLETON     AND     COMPANY,    NEW     YORK. 


A  New  Novel  fay  the  Author  of 

"THE  SILENCE  OF  DEAN  MAITLAND." 

Richard  Rosny. 

By  MAXWELL  GRAY.     Frontispiece.     i2mo.     Cloth, 

$1.50. 

"  Shows  masterly  and  artistic  work." — Buffalo  Commercial. 

"  Dignified,    earnest,     and    thoughtfully    written."  —  Indianapolis 
News. 

"  The  mystery  of  the  plot  is  the  principal  charm. — Brooklyn  Eagle. 

"  The  book  is  full  of  action,  and  it  would  be  hard  to  find  anything 
dull  in  the  whole  story." —  Worcester  Spy. 

"Of  more  than  usual  interest  and  strength,  and  in  the  psycho 
logical  study  of  character  it  is  very  strong." — St.  Paul  Despatch. 

"  It  is  a  dramatic  and  absorbing  novel,  and  one  that  will  be  widely 
read." — St.  Louis  Republic. 


OTHER  BOOKS  BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR. 

Each  I2mo.     Cloth,  $1.00  ;  Paper,  50  cents. 
The  Silence  of  Dean  Maitland. 
The  Reproach  of  Annesley. 
An  Innocent  Impostor. 
A  Costly  Freak. 
The  World's  Mercy. 
Sweethearts  and  Friends. 
The  Last  Sentence. 
Four-Leaved  Clover. 
In  the  Heart  of  the  Storm. 


The  House  of  the  Hidden  Treasure.     $1.50. 


D.    APPLETON     AND     COMPANY,     NEW     YORK. 


By  ELLEN  THORNEYCROFT  FOWLER. 


Each,  J2mo,  cloth,  $1.50. 
Place  and  Power.     With  8  full-page  Illustrations. 

The  story  of  an  ambitious  young  man  whose  most  cherished  aims  are 
frustrated  through  retributive  justice.  The  story  is  full  of  interest  and 
attractive  characterization,  the  main  action  of  the  plot  is  skilfully  hidden 
until  the  right  moment,  and  the  dialogue  is  entertaining  and  clever. 

Sirius.     A  Volume  of  Fiction. 

"  Ellen  Thorneycroft  Fowler's  latest  production  has  richer  sources  of 
entertainment  than  any  one  book  she  has  yet  written,  inasmuch  as  it  has 
more  characters,  more  conversation,  and  more  epigrams." — Chicago  Tribune. 

Cupid's  Garden.     With  new  Portrait  of  the  Author. 

"  Whatever  this  author  sends  out  has  freshness  and  originality,  and  her 
sketches  of  people  are  so  deftly  drawn  that  one  wonders  at  the  versatility. 
•  Cupid's  Garden  '  is  a  collection  of  stories  of  love,  not  all  of  which  run 
smooth,  but  which  all  exhibit  some  noble  trait  of  the  tender  passion." — 
Indianapolis  News. 

The  Farringdons. 

"  'The  Farringdons'  is  a  serious  and  a  sound  piece  of  work,  and  there 
is  about  it  a  note  of  thoroughly  genuine  piety  which  is  very  far  from  being 
religiosity.  ...  It  is  bright,  it  is  interesting,  and  the  denouement  is  just 
what  we  all  would  wish  it  to  be." — London  Chronicle. 

Concerning   Isabel    Carnaby.     New  edition,  with   Por 
trait  and  Biographical    Sketch  of  the  Author. 

"  Rarely  does  one  find  such  a  charming  combination  of  wit  and  tender 
ness,  of  brilliancy,  and  reverence  for  the  things  that  matter.  ...  It  is 
bright  without  being  flippant,  tender  without  being  mawkish,  and  as  joyous 
and  as  wholesome  as  sunshine  The  characters  are  closely  studied  and 
clearly  limned,  and  thev  are  created  by  one  who  knows  human  nature.  .  .  . 
It  would  be  hard  to  find  its  superior  for  all-around  excellence.  .  .  .  No  one 
who  reads  it  will  regret  it  or  forget  it." — Chicago  Tribune.  _, 

A  Double  Thread. 

"  Brilliant  and  witty.  Shows  fine  insight  into  character." — Minneapolis 
Journal. 

"  Crowded  with  interesting  people.  One  of  the  most  enjoyable  stories 
of  the  season." — Philadelphia  Inquirer. 

D.  APPLETON  AND   COMPANY,   NEW  YORK 


BOOKS    BY    MRS.    EVERARD    COTES 

(Sara  Jeannette  Duncan.) 
The  Imperialist.     A  Novel.     iamo.     Cloth,  $1.50. 

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—  The  New  York  World. 

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